


The World's Not Waiting (Or, Fame < Infamy)

by reading_is_in



Series: Bandom Space Opera AU [3]
Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy, Fuck City, Panic! at the Disco, The Academy Is...
Genre: AU, Alternative Universe - Space Opera, Gen, M/M, Space Opera
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-11
Updated: 2017-02-23
Packaged: 2018-08-30 09:03:10
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 20,891
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8527138
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/reading_is_in/pseuds/reading_is_in
Summary: Four years have passed since Patrick Stump abandoned his respectable career as a pilot to fall in love with intergalactic renegade Pete Wentz, joining his crew of miscreants in their adventures across the galaxy. Thoughts of Earth have been far from his mind for a while. But, when news of a new venture by Wentz Corp threatens a planet potentially budding with new life, Patrick, Pete and their friends can't ignore the call to make their most adventurous journey yet.
Third in the Bandom Space Opera AU.





	1. Chapter 1

Many years ago – well alright, seven years, it seemed like a long time when your whole life, world and value system got obliterated and reformed from scratch, okay? - when Patrick was a cadet, he’d hated parties. Small gatherings of people he could do, even enjoy himself – provided he knew at least some of the people in advance, and there would be a few quiet corners he could retreat to and recharge if necessary. Now, at the age of 28, four years dismissed from the Fleet and the de facto partner in enterprise of notorious renegade/occasional vigilante Peter Lewis Kingston Wentz III, Patrick.... - still pretty much hated parties.

He’d gotten better at faking it, he consoled himself, hovering near a doorway, glass in hand as he took in the hall. Pete’s crew was being hosted by the People’s Democratic Governor of Ocrinada - Patrick thought that was what Andy had said, though his tone had implied he considered the title risible. Patrick had to admit, what he’d seen of Ocrinada so far didn’t look very democratic – or equal, or representative. There was a lot of poverty, and a lot of ostentatious wealth. Holographs of the Governor’s face beamed from roadsides and street corners. Wealth or not, he seemed pretty popular.

“Do you want this? I don’t think I like it.” Travie popped up on Patrick’s left and offered him half a glass of red liquid with some kind of fruit on top.

“Gosh thanks,” said Patrick dryly. “I don’t think we’re quite at the point of shortage that I need your leftovers, Trav. Thanks anyway.”

“Just seems like a waste,” Travie said regretfully, considered the remains of the drink and then poured it into a plant pot.

“This whole thing seems like a waste,” said Patrick, then bit his lip before he got anymore inappropriate. The Governmental Complex had been transformed into a party venue supposedly in their honor, verandahs opened up and twinkling with lights, spreads of exotic food in the halls and outside on grills, two bands and a DJ whose styles clashed offensively in the hallways, and at least fifty kinds of alcohol. It seemed like the capital’s upper class had turned out in their entirety. Ocrinadans being of avian descent, feathers featured heavily in their fashions – all colours, sizes and styles, from headdresses to trains. Patrick felt like he’d spent most of the night trying not to step on bits of expensive outfits.

“It’s their style, man” Travie shrugged. “Hospitality is important. Plus the president kinda owes us, you know, we all helped out when their kids got kidnapped.”

“That seems kind of interventionist.”

“It wasn’t, like, on purpose. We were pulling a raid on a trafficker and ended up intercepting them,” Travie shrugged, and rested an elbow on Patrick’s head. It was an annoying habit, but given the literal foot of height difference between them Patrick figured it was kind of automatic. “So we ended up bringing them straight back, cos well, we couldn’t exactly get much done with a couple of toddlers running around. Shit, they must be eight or nine now.” He shook his head, looking over to where Pete was dancing with the ’s wife. She was laughing and possibly blushing a bit – it was hard to tell through the layers of white makeup presently in fashion – and he was flattering her carefully, though Patrick could tell he was getting bored. He considered going to rescue him, but given that Pete was the one who’d dragged him to this thing, Patrick figured he could suffer.

A gong sounded through the ballroom, and the party guests all broke into chattering.

“What’s that?” Patrick asked.

“Dinner,” said Travie and rubbed his hands together. “Finally."

They all filed through to a dining hall that reminded Patrick of a castle, except that the flame-effect tapers were holographs and the drapes were some fancy synthetic fabric that maintained the room temperature. Patrick hoped he’d be allowed to lose himself in the crowd, but Pete grabbed his elbow and said

“ _There_ you are, come and sit up here.”

Patrick whined, “Do I have to?” but Pete was already dragging him towards the high table:

“You’re a guest of honor, Pattycakes, or at least I am, and you’re with me so yeah you have to,” and then Patrick was sitting next to the Governor. He was still getting used to the Ocrinadans – with their beady eyes, and the way their heads swivelled on their necks, it was hard not to think of them as vaguely predatory. Patrick had been introduced to the Governor at the start of the evening –

\- “And this must be your lovely wife –“

“Er, no, we’re not, that is to say –“

“We’re not married –“

“Well why not? Peter, are you not concerned with your lineage?”

After an awkward explanation of human reproduction – it turned out the Ocrinadans were parthenogenic, but only considered it proper to childrear within marriage, combined with a whole bunch of other conditions which Patrick promptly forgot – they’d established that Pete and Patrick were a couple, but not married. This was concept the Ocrinadans found extremely strange, given that marriage between them was a flexible affair with few apparent downsides. The Governer’s wife, for example, was also married to the Transport Minister, which did not entail the Transporter being married to the Governor. Or something. Patrick’s pretty sure she’d like to be married to Pete before the end of the night.

The first course is kind of sweet soup that tastes like perfume, definitely not suited to Earth tastebuds:

“Gross,” whispers Travie. “Do you want mine”?

“No! Stop trying to pawn stuff off on me!”

“I wish Joe was here, that dude eats anything.”

“I wish I was back on the ship with Joe.”

“I’ll take it,” pipes up Sisky from Travie’s other side and Patrick rolls his eyes – the kid is like a scarecrow and so far as Patrick can tell, rarely stops eating for more than fifteen minutes at a time. It’s difficult not to be just a tiny bit jealous.

“One day you’re gonna turn 30 and regret your ways,” Patrick says.

“Probably,” says Sisky amiably. “Gotta make the most of this metabolism while I can, right?” and pats his non-existent belly.

“Friends,” says the Governor and stands up to make a toast. “Persons of Ocrinadans, and esteemed guests,” It seems he’s rejected a translator. “We are pleased to receive and make your friendship. You are welcome to the hospitality of our home, and hope that you enjoy the most of your time here. Our tradition of help has been established since seven years –“ He goes on for a bit, references the failed kidnapping in oblique terms, then finishes up: “And must I make congratulations with regard your respected family’s exciting new endeavour, please do not hesitate to contact us. We are influence with the Interstellar Conservation and Ecology Committee, and thus should he present any further trouble, do not hesitate to contact us.”

There’s a pause. Pete looks surprised for a second, then worried, then covers rapidly and beams his biggest smile. He stands up to shake the Governor’s hand, and everybody cheers, and meal resumes.

“What was _that_ about?” asks Travie.

“Beats me,” Patrick murmers, watching Pete. He’s unsettled, but only people who know him very well would recognise it. Charm mode is back in full force. When the meal is finally over, and they’re able to retire to the guest suite, Pete takes off his dinner jacket and throws it on the bed with a sigh. He starts undoing his tie.

“So,” says Patrick.

“I know, you hated it, it was terrible, I owe you forever and up to and including any sexual favors you could possibly wish for-“

“No,” says Patrick. “Well, yes. But also, what was that speech about? Some project of your father you’re concerned about?”

“My father has a lot of projects,” Pete says.

“Yeah. But this one disturbs you.”

“The entire family business fucking disturbs me,” Pete says, then: “Sorry. I didn’t mean to snap.”

“Do you know what he was talking about?”

“I have an idea.” Pete’s mouth twists. “I may be wrong, and I hope I’m wrong, but I suspect I’m not.”

Patrick takes off his own jacket, picks up Pete’s, and hangs them both on the wardrobe door. He deliberately doesn’t look at Pete, but spends a few minutes straightening things on the dresser for no reason. The Ocrinada favour ornaments based on the natural world: shells, flowers, feathers, and something that looks like a minature tree sculpture.

“The thing is,” Pete says, “Wentz Corp has been scoping this planet for metal mining for a couple of years now. It’s rich in some kind of ore, I don’t know. So far environmentalists have been blocking them, because there’s good reason to think there’s intelligent life on the planet, just in some weird form that’s not immediately obvious. And unless the Governor has his facts wrong, it sounds like dad’s about to get his way regardless.” He says it lightly, but his shoulders are hunched as he paces back and forth. He’s pulling at his bottom lip unconsciously, a sure sign he’s upset.

“It’s not your fault,” says Patrick.

“I know. But I still feel responsible.” He stops pacing and looks at Patrick. “Some of Andy’s friends have worked damn hard to try and stop this.”

“What do you want to do?”

“I don’t know. Get the full story first I guess. Are you gonna shower?”

“Yeah. Coming?”

“No, I’m gonna do some research.” Pete goes to his bag and gets a laptop out, then sets it up at the small table. Patrick wants to say something like ‘Don’t stay up too late’, but that’s pointless, so he just showers and gets into bed, reading by lamplight for a while until he’s sleepy. 

*

“This is bullshit.”

Andy punches the wall. Patrick’s rarely seen Andy mad – he’s generally an unflappable guy, the one people go to for advice or just to listen if they have a problem. Now he’s red-faced, jaw tight and fists clenched, and the deck has a dent in the new panel Sisky just fused in yesterday.

“Andy,” says Pete.

“No it’s bullshit Pete and you know it. Mix just needs some more time. They’re really close to proving it, all they need is the funding to make a proper survey, can’t we help them?”

“We can’t fund them if that’s what you’re asking,” Pete says sharply. “That door kind of closed with the whole disinheriting scenario.”

“I know,” says Andy. “I know. Can’t we just…”

“I’m going to Earth,” says Pete. Unlike most of them, he doesn’t refer to Earth as home. “It’s the best way to get the full story. Dad isn’t going to talk to me, but some of his partners might. Get in touch with Mixon and tell him we’ll meet him on Orion Station in five days. And to bring a respectable scientist, we need somebody to stand before the Earth-Intergalactic Development Committee.”

“I don’t know any respectable scientists. All my friends have ideological commitments.”

“Do we know any respectable scientists?” Pete asks the bridge at large.

“Yes,” says Patrick, suddenly sitting up straight. “Or, at least, we know someone who knows some.”

“Who?” Pete stares at him.

“Brendon,” says Patrick. “He’s been working on a science vessel for the past year. He’s friends with their biologist.”

“…Okay,” says Pete after a second.

“Cool, what’s his number?” Andy already has a tablet out.

“Hey wait hold up,” says Pete. It’s like he and Andy have switched roles. “We don’t even know if this person is suitable. Let’s just get to Earth first, see what’s what, then figure out how we can help Mixon’s crew get a mission together.”

“Fuck City are the only people who are going to stop this,” says Andy flatly.

“What’s a fuck city?” William pops his head up from an engine panel, looking extremely interested.

“It’s a commune,” Andy snaps: “They have ethics, you wouldn’t be interested.”

“Ouch,” says William mildly, putting a hand to his chest. “What did I do?”

“Sorry,” Andy says, then turns around and walks off the bridge. William raises his eyebrows at Patrick:

“Clearly I missed some drama planetside. Do tell.”

Patrick sighs, keeping one eye on the viewscreen as he engages autopilot. It doesn’t feel like his place to spill Pete’s family business, but Bill has a right to know why they’re redirecting for Earth.

“It’s, well, mining stuff,” he says uncomfortably. “And planets.” Wow. A+ for the coherent explanation there. Bill just nods sagely though, like he understands, and ducks back under the panel to continue working.

“He’s just happy we’re going to Earth,” pipes up Sisky: “It’s not everyday Bill gets to see his _boyfriend_.”

“He’s not my boyfriend.”

“Fuck buddy? Sugar Daddy? Cos you know, he’s rich.”

“Adam Siska!” William stands up and puts his hand on his hips. “How dare you use such language? How do you know what a fuck buddy is? Tell me who told you!”

“You literally just said fuck two minutes ago. So did Andy.”

“Andy is not my child like you are my child Sisky! Go to your room!”

“I don't have a room. I have a bunk.”

“Don’t backchat me.”

Patrick chuckles to himself and tunes them out as they enter a busier quadrant, setting the navigator back to manual and taking the controls. 

*

In the morning, Pete asks everyone not on necessary duties to meet in the rec room. That leaves Maja below decks making sure nothing blew up and Travie on deck. Everyone else is around the main table, Joe looking half awake after a night shift – Patrick slides him a cup of instant coffee which he receives with a grin. Pete and Andy are standing at the head of the table, talking together quietly. Pete hadn’t come to bed last night at all.

“Okay,” Pete says. “Everyone listen up. As of now, this ship is on course for Earth. You all know the history of Wentz Corp when it comes to planetary exploitation, well, shit just got real. This,” Andy taps his tablet and a diagram of a solar system is projected onto the far wall. “Is Epsilon 7. As you can see, the sun is huge is and extremely hot, maybe 5 to 6 times hotter than ours. Most of these planets have been charted, and there’s nothing on them. Well, there’s rock. Maybe a bit of water. These two are deserts,” he makes the laser pen circle some of the middle planets, then the last one: “But this one has vegetation. circles some of the middle planets, then makes the laser pen circle the last planet, furthest from the powerful-looking sun: “Is a tropical jungle. Wentz Corp assert no intelligent life here, and there don’t look to be large mammals, but there could be all kinds of insects or smaller life forms, they’re just pushing the proposals through with money so they can’t start mining sooner. Some of my friends who are scientists have been running scans and trying to block the proposals – you guys remember Matt Mixon?” he asks Bill and Travie.

“I remember him,” says Bill with his chin in his hand: “He was hot.”

Travie hits him.

“No but really,” Bill says: _”Smoking.”_

“Okay, but, why can’t he get the All-Earth Ecological Institution to fund him?” Travie asks.

“Matt’s not a member of the Instution anymore. They decided he and Kyle and Ryan were eco-terrorists.”

“Why?”

“Probably because of all the eco-terrorism,” Andy admits.

Patrick looks at Pete in confusion:

“Other Ryan,” Pete clarifies. “There’s also an Other Brendon, believe it or not, but they’re not in long-distance love.”

_”Anyway,”_ says Andy pointedly, looking like he wants to bang the pointer on the table. “What we need is a way to get Mix, Kyle and their team to Epsilon 7 so they can get some proof of life.”

“Not to belabor the obvious,” Bill says. “But, uh, we have a ship…”

“It’s more than that. We need equipment, safety gear…plus we need somebody to stand in front of the official types, which is where your respectable scientist comes in,” he nods to Patrick.

“I don’t actually know the guy,” Patrick warns. “Friend of a friend.”

“Is he actually Brendon’s friend, or someone Brendon talked to for three minutes and decided was his new BFF for life?” Pete wants to know.

“He is actually his friend.”

“Okay, good. So as ever – anybody wanting to opt out of this, let me know now and we’ll figure out a drop off.”

Silence. It doesn’t always happen – people stop off and visit friends, take turns for supply runs and routine missions where their skills are not particularly needed. For the big stuff, though, they tend to stick together. Patrick is starting to feel like it doesn’t get much bigger than this.

TBC


	2. Chapter 2

Earth looms blue, green and clouded in the viewscreen. Joe leans into Patrick’s shoulder and says,

“Man. I still get those fuzzy feelings.”

“Me too,” Patrick admits. He still had a lot of affection for his planet of birth, despite the fact his family had moved off-earth a few years ago. In their retirement, his parents had decided they preferred the climate-controlled, cleaner environment of the orbiting stations, and had settled on Earth-Annexe II. They had only the vaguest idea of what Patrick ‘did’: he’d told them he left the Fleet to pilot an independent research and exploration vessel, which wasn’t strictly _false_ , so much as it was a massive omission of context. In fairness to him, Pete had been very careful to keep Patrick out of the gutter press – an accomplishment which, Patrick guessed, was made easier by the contrast between him and Pete’s string of glamorous former partners:

“Shut up,” Pete had hit him with a pillow last time Patrick made the observation. “You’re gorgeous.”

“You’re deluded.”

“Patrick!” Pete propped himself up one elbow, looking genuinely upset: “Why do you say stuff like that? You’re beautiful.”

“Uh, no I’m not? It’s fine, Pete. I’m an adult. I’m not crying into my cereal over it. You don’t have to lie to reassure me.”

That made Pete sulk, so they dropped it, but the truth was that over the past years Patrick had grown to be grateful for his unassuming appearance. Being born with a face like Pete’s, in combination with his family position, was clearly not the uncomplicated advantage people assumed it was.

As their ship entered Earth’s atmosphere, sensors pinged to let them know they were monitored.

“4X2-3304, this is All-Earth Security, please confirm your identity and registration and state your purpose.”

“My pleasure,” Pete’s voice filtered from the bridge: Patrick imagined he could hear Earth officials everywhere sighing into their coffee. Pete had never been convicted of anything on Earth, so there was nothing they could do to stop him coming and going – except perhaps wishing really, really hard that he’d stay away. “As I see you’re already scanning my ship, I’ll just let you know that we’re here to pick up some parts for refurbishment and visit friends and family.”

There’s a pause as the duty officer wonders how to take that, then the com crackles:

“Destination?”

“Chicago, Illinois.”

“You are cleared to proceed through security tunnel 12.”

There’s no answer, so Patrick guesses Pete makes a mocking salute or something, because they surge forwards and enter one of the tunnels. The ship is processed quickly (weapons and banned substances have been offloaded for safekeeping at a base just outside the Milky Way) and they’re directed onto a cleared trajectory – Patrick leans towards the viewscreen, smiling, until the seatbelt sign activates. Like most pilots, Patrick doesn’t enjoy other people’s landings – his ears pop and he gets motion sick in a way he never seems to at the controls – but Travie knows what he’s doing, and its over pretty fast. Then they’re docking, and Patrick’s back at the window even though it’s just station out there, and Travie’s voice comes over the com:

“Aaand that’s all folks. Get off my ship so I can start some maintenance.”

And they all file out and assemble in the docking bay. Patrick takes a few breaths of deep, recycled air, imagining he already tastes the difference.

“Listen up,” Pete claps his hands. “You are all off duty for the next 48 hours, but keep your phones on. Trick and I have some contacts to make. We meet back here Sunday night for recon. Any questions?”

“Yeah, can we go?” Bill’s looking over Pete’s shoulder. Patrick follows his line of sight and sees a guy even taller than Bill, possibly even taller than Travie. He’s dark skinned with a broad smile, dressed in a loud purple blazer with a louder neck chain, black skinny jeans and patent leather shoes. His face lights up when he sees Bill.

“Yeah, get out of here,” Pete says with a smile. Bill all but launches himself at the newcomer, exclaiming:

“Gabey!”

At the same time the guy exclaims

“Bivly!”

And they begin to make out frantically there in the landing bay, whilst Sisky makes fake puking noises and Pete looks on with a raised eyebrow. The intial greeting over, ‘Gabey’ saunters over to shake Pete’s hand:

“Hey Wentz, nice to see you.”

“Gabe.”

“So what’s this I hear about the family business reaching Epsilon 7? Your old man’s all up in the news again.”

“Yeah, well, it hasn’t happened yet. I’ve got people looking into the place.”

“If there’s anything I can do to help, you have my number.”

Pete blinks, clearly taken aback. “You mean that?”

“Hey, any friend of Bilvy’s,” Gabe shrugs.

“Okay, thanks man. I may take you up on that.”

“He just wants your money,” Bill says helpfully.

“Everybody just wants me for my money,” Gabe sighs.

“Not true!” Bill exclaims, apparently scandalized. “I for one am at least equally attracted to your ass.”

“Baby, you say the sweetest things,” says Gabe, and the two of them leave presumably for a hotel room. Joe, Maja and Sisky have all made plans to meet up with friends and family, whilst Travie has some work to do on the ship. Pete’s already on his phone as he heads out of the hanger. Then suddenly he stops and looks at Patrick.

“Don’t worry about me,” says Patrick archly. “This is actually my home city, you know.”

“I know, I was just wondering…”

“I don’t need a babysitter.”

“I was wondering if you’d come with me to Wentz Corp Headquarters.”

Patrick blinks. “Uh. Yeah. Yeah sure, just maybe let me change first…”

“You’re fine as you are. They know me, and you’re with me. If you wear a suit it would look weird.”

“I wasn’t thinking a suit, just maybe….” Patrick vaguely indicates the ripped blue jeans and baseball tee he’s wearing. Pete’s wearing black skinny jeans and a tight maroon t-shirt that says ‘Fuckboi99’ in scrawled letters. Patrick takes his point. They walk out of the hangar together and Patrick can’t help but smile at the rush of fresh air, staring around at the skyscrapers and bustling sidewalks. Shuttles zip through the atmosphere high above them, and electronic billboards flash the latest products and services from the side of buildings. Chicago is noisy, loud and muggy with pollution. It still feels like home.

They eat first - ‘forticification’, as Pete calls it, hitting up some swanky Japanese-fusion place where nobody looks at Pete twice. Plates whizz by on converybelts, almost too fast for Patrick to see what’s on them.

“How much do you know about Wentz Corp?” Pete asks, tapping his chopsticks on the side of a small bowl.

“Apart from what you've told me,” says Patrick carefully “Just what everyone knows, I guess.” He knows the story of why Pete abandoned his family, but generally they don't discuss Wentz Corp. A plate of seared salmon whizzes by and evades his hands – Pete intercepts it and grabs it for him. Patrick nods in thanks. “I know it's Major mining company, chiefly metal and fuels, contracts with US and foreign government, several offworld interests. I mean, there’s a statue of your dad in Lincoln park. You don’t look much like him.”

“Yeah well,” Pete snickers: “He doesn’t look much like his statue. Anyway that’s about the shape of it. They do land development as well. And generally have no problem bulldozing whatever they want out of the way first. Some of it should be illegal, but my dad keeps it above board. He knows all the right people, if you get me." He sighs and pushes a plate away. "The truth is, Patrick, my dad wasn't always like this. At least I think he wasn't. Maybe I just wasn't aware of it. Even once you know, it's just hard to reconcile, you know?"

Patrick does not know. Patrick's dad is a small time folk musician and archivist at a public library. He can imagine though.

"Soo...." Pete pushes some rice around on his plate, separating the grains with a chopstick. He isn't really eating anything, and Patrick wants to prompt him, but telling Pete to do anything good for him produces the specifically adolescent response of UGH SHUT UP YOU'RE NOT THE BOSS OF ME (on memorable occasion, in those words. Patrick laughed at him, and Pete sulked for almost a day). "I don't know how much is him, and how much is his inner circle at this point, but there's a guys in middle management who will probably talk to me. I already talked to his secretary, we have a meeting."

"Talked?"

"Okay, bribed. The bribes involved talking though."

"What was the bribe, Pete?"

"Some exotic booze Bill got in the Antaris Nebula. I'll replace it! Or refund him. He'll understand, it's for a higher cause. He's fucking Gabriel Saporta, he access to all the exotic booze the human liver can process. It's saving him from himself, really."

"Okay," Patrick rubs his eyes for a second. “What time is the meeting?”

“Three,” Pete checks his watch. Patrick checks his phone, and there’s a message from Brendon on there. Pete takes the phone out of his hand and calls him back:

“Yo. No it’s Pete. Yeah? Excellent. Can you have them in Chicago by tonight though? Dinner at the Riverfront. My treat. Yeah, totally. Eight o clock, if we’re not there just namedrop me. Yep. Yep. Okay.” He hangs up and says: “Brendon’s bringing the biologist guy tonight.”

“Wonderful,” says Patrick: “Give me my phone back.”

They pay and head out onto the street. It looks about to rain, so Patrick asks if Pete wants to get a taxi.

“Nah,” Pete says: “I don’t feel like being recognized,” pulls his hood up and guides Patrick by the hand a few blocks. They stop in front of a tower block much like all the other tower blocks. The Wentz Corp logo is displayed as a 3D titanium model above the main doors. It’s a stylized ‘W’ amid some streams of what Patrick guesses his supposed to represent energy.

“Dad was smart enough not to go with WC,” Pete comments. Patrick cracks a smile. He’s nervous, but also extremely curious. Pete is fidgety and but controlling it, hands making small unconciousess movements and fingers tapping out rhythms on his palms. The doorman isn’t looking at them, presumably thinking they’re passing by, until they come close – then he does a double take at Pete, and says,

“Mr. Wentz?”

“Whaddup?” Pete sketches a kind of salute.

The doorman looks at Patrick. Pete slips an arm around Patrick’s waist and leans on him provocatively. The doorman steps aside. As they enter, though, Patrick notes he takes out his phone and sends some rapid texts.

The tower is all chrome and glass, very contemporary, and there’s a long curving desk where the secretary is working on a sleek desktop terminal.

“Lena!” says Pete like they’re old friends.

“Mr. Wentz,” she says dryly. “Mr. Anderson is in a meeting but should see you shortly. And this is….?”

“My associate,” Pete says, arm still around Patrick’s waist. “Professor Theodore E. Eddington.” Patrick just about stops himself rolling his eyes. Trust Pete to give him a fake name more ridiculous than his real name. The secretary smirks but taps the fake name into her computer. “Please take a seat,” she says. “Can I offer you a drink while you wait?”

“That’s fine,” Pete says, and sprawls all over the leather couch very obviously, and Patrick sits more normally on a single seat. The secretary keeps sneaking amused glances at them like she knows exactly what’s going on, but Pete’s bribe must have worked because she says nothing further. After about fifteen minutes, during which Patrick stares around the room and Pete makes a show of himself, her computer pings and she stands:

“Mr. Anderson will see you now.”

“Oooh,” Pete rubs his hands together: “Ominous.”

Patrick pokes him hard in the side and the secretary leads a short way down a corridor (the chrome-and-white theme continues) to a sliding door.

“Come in,” says a man’s voice and the door opens. The secretary nods and leaves them.

Mr. Anderson is not what Patrick expects.

For one thing, he’s not human.


	3. Chapter 3

Anderson’s skin is bright blue and scaled, eyes black, and on the side of his neck are what look like the evolutionary remnants of gills. He’s wearing a long-sleeved shirt, but at his wrists, Patrick can glimpse what look like the flaps of fins. His fingers are webbed. 

Patrick’s guessing Anderson is a nickname.

“Peter,” says Anderson in a perfect Chicago accent: “How have you been?”

“Busy,” Pete says and they shake hands. “Here there and everywhere, you know.”

“So I hear,” says Anderson, and they take seats. Patrick shakes his hand too: it’s clammy.

“And yourself? How are the kids?” asks Pete.

“Growing up fast.” As they exchange small talk, Patrick notices something happening. Anderson presses a few buttons, and the shades draw on the window. There’s a low hum of technology starting up, and the door clicks. Patrick tries not to think about all the mob thrillers he’s seen in his life.

“Okay cool,” Pete leans forward: “We’re not being taped anymore.”

“We were being taped?!?” If Patrick had known this, he would have objected more explicitly to Theodore Eddington. Pete flashes him a quick, apologetic grin, then says

“So what’s the situation?”

“The survey starts in two Earth months,” Anderson says, “But the survey company is bought and paid for. They could write the report now, for all the difference it would make.” He stares at Pete with what Patrick assumes is an earnest expression: “I am 90% sure there’s intelligent life on that planet, Pete. It’s just a matter of what they will class as intelligence.” Pete nods once, shortly:

“Okay. So. We do our survey inside the two months. Which shouldn’t be a problem, provided Travie can get the hyperdrive up to it, and no-one like, dies. Do you have any slides or images of Epsilon 7?”

Anderson bites his lip, an oddly human gesture. He looks around nervously, then says

“I shouldn’t have these.”

“Dude, come on,” Pete says impatiently. “We came a long way.”

Anderson nods, sighs, and pulls out a desk draw. Inside is an old fashioned lock box. Hey keys in a code, webbed fingers moving too fast for Patrick to read the number, and produces a datapen which he aims at the far wall. Patrick turns for a better look – the images are blurry, clearly taken from orbit, but Patrick can tell already the planet is beautiful. Dense, lush foliage, rather like Earth was supposed to be all those millennia ago – Patrick can imagine dinosaurs come crashing through the jungle at any second. He starts to feel the first frissons of real excitement start in his stomach. If they do it right, this could be something amazing. 

Pete’s eyes flick over the images. He nods shortly. “What do we know about the atmosphere? Breathability? How flat are the continents? Can I borrow these?”

“You can have them,” Anderson says. “Please, take them away and never associate them with me again.”

“On it,” Pete tucks the slides carefully into a folder. “I’m not gonna trip any alarms with these right?”

“No,” says Anderson. “They’re clean.”

“So what makes you think there’s intelligent life on the planet?” Patrick asks.

“It’s the oceans,” says Anderson. “Their makeup is extremely unusual. I’m no bioscientist…”

“But you are an –“ says Pete, and then makes a sound that Patrick presumes approximates Anderson’s native’s species.

“Not bad,” Anderson looks amused. “I’ve heard worse attempts. And yes, I am. Sometimes it seems like another life, but I know where my people came from. I believe the oceans are supporting something intelligent, or if they’re not, they will be very soon. On an evolutionary timetable, naturally.”

“There’s no law against the destruction of _prospective_ intelligent life,” Pete points out. “The ramifications of something like that would never end.”

“That depends on your definition of intelligence,” says Anderson. There’s a moment of tension in the air between them, so Patrick cuts in:

“In any case, if there’s intelligence to be found there, we’ll need some kind of equipment for scanning the oceans.”

“Andy’s friends will have that. Or they can get it.”

“Well, it was good seeing you again, Pete,” Anderson looks like he wants them to leave his office.

“You too,” Pete says absently, so Patrick shakes the guy’s hand, trying not to let on how the clamminess weirded him out, and they traipse back into the lobby.

“I’m going back to the ship to review these with Travie,” Pete says. “Can you be at the Riverfront for seven? We’re having dinner with Brendon and his guys.”

“I gathered,” Patrick says. Despite himself, he feels a little warm buzz inside – it will be good to see Brendon. Patrick kills a couple of hours by visiting some of the newer museums, before catching a cab back to the inner city. Pete’s waiting for him in the foyer of the Riverfront:  
"You changed,” Patrick accuses. Pete is now wearing a nice suit in navy with crisp white cuffs. Patrick feels like a mess.

“Yours is in the room,” Pete hands him a keycard. Patrick rolls his eyes and stomps off to get changed, trying to avoid the business types and rich people on city breaks. Pete follows him up to their suite and sits back on the bed like he expects Patrick to strip in front of him, so Patrick changes in the bathroom.

“Paatrick!” Pete complains from outside the door: “What are you doing, I’ve put my dick in your mouth, you know!”

“And if you ever want to put it there again, you can stop harassing me!”

Pete shuts up. Patrick imagines him miming a zipping motion. Patrick stares at himself in the mirror for a moment, stands up straighter, breathes in, and tries to adjust his hair so it looks thicker, and opens the door. Pete’s jaw drops.

“Yeah yeah,” Patrick glares. “I look ridiculous. You can make fun of me later, we need to go.”

“No – you –“ Pete isn’t usually lost for words, but when he is, he tends to replace them with actions. He gets up and crosses the room, grabs Patrick by his tie, and kisses him on the mouth. Patrick stumbles. “You look amazing,” Pete says. “You are amazing.”

“Shut up,” mutters Patrick, straightening his jacket. Pete starts trying to take the jacket off. “We don’t have time,” Patrick giggles a bit despite himself. 

“We can be quick-“

“No – Pete, later okay? It’s almost eight, we need to go downstairs.”

Pete whines and kisses him once more, under his jaw:

“That better not mark,” Patrick mutters, but he’s grinning, who could fail to feel warm inside when Pete Wentz was calling them amazing?   
They separate and Patrick adjusts Pete’s collar, which he’s messed up:

“Who are we dressing up for, anyway? It’s just Brendon.”

“And his official scientist friend,” Pete points out. 

“So? He’s just an officer. I was a captain when you met me and you didn’t show any respect for _my_ rank.”

“Well, but I need this guy,” Pete says. “We’re effectively asking a massive favour for well….nothing.”

“True,” Patrick says, and they head down to the dining room.

“PATRICK!” All of a sudden, Patrick’s arms are full of long skinny limbs and he’s being squeezed around the waist – Brendon attempts to pick him up but he’s not strong enough, so settles for squashing them together as tightly as possible. Patrick laughs and pats his back, then pushing him backwards. He looks up. And up:

“Oh great, you grew.”

“Yep,” says Brendon happily, and goes to hug Pete, then the waiter leads them all back to a table. As they approach, a young man with sandy-brown hair, blue eyes and a short beard stands up to shake their hands.

“Pete, Patrick,” Brendon says: “May I present Dr. Spencer Smith, Assistant Head of Bioscience on the Endeavour 6.”

“Nice to meet you,” says Dr. Smith. He’s younger than Patrick thought he’d be, with a calm even voice and quiet manner. Everyone shakes hands and then the waiter brings them drinks – Brendon’s ordered for everyone with surprising accuracy.

“I’m gonna lay it on the table,” says Pete to Smith: “If you do this, it could impact your career. In a bad way. On the other hand, it could make your career. It’s hard to say how Earth Fleet will react,” with a glance at Patrick.

“I don’t work for Earth Fleet,” says Smith. “I’m a contractor.”

“Fabulous! So all we have to worry about is getting arrested,” says Pete without irony.

“If I do this,” Smith frowns and drums his fingers on the table: “I want to be clear that it’s not on act of charity. “Dr. Mixon’s work is quite fundamental, and it’s a travesty that he was barred from the Institute. But as you say - I have my career to think about. If we find something, I’ll stand up before the committee for it. If we don’t, I’m out, and will deny any involvement with the whole thing. We never met.”

“Harsh,” says Pete, “But fair I guess.”

“Besides uh,” Smith coughs a bit and looks vaguely embarrassed: "I _really_ want to meet Dr. Mixon." 

Brendon looks disappointed, but doesn’t say anything. They’re interrupted to order, and as they eat, Pete and Dr. Smith work out the details of their project in low voices. By the end of the night, Dr. Smith is not only on board with the plan, but asking everyone to call him Spencer. It turns out he’s kind of a fan of Pete’s. Patrick suppresses his eye roll.

“This is gonna be so fun!” Brendon squeaks under his breath. “I’ve already taken leave, I’ve been storing it up, I can’t wait till we go, when are we going?”

“Wait – you’re coming?” Patrick asks.

“Of course,” Brendon pouts. “Someone’s got to keep an eye on Spencer.”

“So that’s me, you, the crew, Brendon and Spencer,” Patrick ticks off on his fingers, laying back on their hotel bed much later that night. “All we need now are the Fuck City guys. And well, money.”

“Money’s taken care of,” says Pete.

“Really? How?” Patrick sits up.

“Well…Gabriel Saporta’s paying for it. In a word.”

Patrick frowns. “Why is Gabriel Saporta paying for it, Pete?”

“Because Bill asked him to. Look, Gabe Saporta is absurdly rich, Patrick. Like, so rich that funding this expedition isn’t even a thing for him. It’s like buying a coffee. It won’t even register in his bank balance.”

“That’s not the point.”

“So what is the point?”

“I’m just….I’m really not comfortable accepting this level of charity.”

“Don’t come then.”

“Pete don’t start that. Of course I’m coming.”

Pete shrugs and turns back to the dresser.

“Peter.”

“Look, I don’t have much of a choice, Trick. We need to start now. Do you have a better idea?”

“No, you’re right, I shouldn’t have said anything.”

Pause.

“Come to bed.”

“Later.”

“Pete don’t sulk please. We’ve talked about this.”

Pete sighs and finishes undressing before crawling into bed in just his boxers. Patrick is wearing pajamas as always, but joins him under the covers. Pete presses their foreheads together.

“Hey,” Patrick says, sliding his hand down Pete’s side and pausing over the scar from the bullet wound that almost killed him. It’s soft but rough, edges of the skin adhering messily from impromptu surgery in a desert hut. Patrick hates and loves it. “What’s the matter?”

“I don’t know,” says Pete unhappily. This is a side of him only Patrick sees – maybe Andy has glimpses. Patrick kisses his nose, cheeks, his mouth, and then Pete starts responding, threads his fingers in Patrick’s hair and kisses back. He turns them so he’s on top of Patrick and starts undoing his top, sliding his hands under his waistband:

“Yeah?”

“Yeah, come on,” mutters Patrick, getting harder by the second and feeling Pete respond in kind. He lifts his hips so that Pete can get his pyjamas off.

“You’re the most gorgeous thing I’ve ever seen in my life,” says Pete when they’re naked. “Don’t you dare roll your eyes at me. It’s true.”

Patrick had trouble believing it, empirically. He’s seen pictures of Pete’s exes. And Pete is so, so beautiful - Patrick isn’t one to wax lyrical about it, that’s just not his style, but it’s an objective fact, as observed by pretty much everyone, and even though Patrick’s lost some weight recently and discovered – what do you know - he actually has pretty nice bone structure, he’s never going to be in Pete’s league. Pete seems to know what he’s thinking and makes an upset noise, says,

“Stop that,” and kisses Patrick hard on the mouth, breaking off to say: “Why. Don’t. You. Believe. Me?”

“I believe you,” Patrick lies, largely because he’s now _very_ hard and would like to get off sometime this century, please. 

“You want to fuck me, beautiful?” Pete pants, rubbing frantically against Patrick’s dick: “Want me to ride your cock now?”

“God, YES,” says Patrick, then: “Do you have?”

“It comes with the room,” says Pete “Why do you think I book this place?” and leans over to open the bedside drawer – the change in friction almost makes Patrick come immediately, and he bites his lip with the strain of holding back. Pete unscrews the lube and starts prepping Patrick:

“And you,” Patrick gasps.

“No need,” Pete smirks, and stifles a groan, thinking of Pete preparing himself in the bathroom, getting himself ready just for Patrick, Patrick’s name on his lips as he holds himself back, one hand on his own cock –

“Fuck me NOW!” Pete growls, so Patrick grabs his hips, steadying him as he works himself onto Patrick, and then they’re moving together, in time, until Pete shouts his name, and they come almost in unison, Pete collapses and Patrick catches him, aligning in their bodies as they come down, panting, hot skin to hot skin as sweat cools between them.

“Oh God,” says Pete finally. “Jesus.”

“Hmmm,” Patrick agrees lazily. In the back of his mind, he’s embarrassed about the people on either side of them, but the walls are pretty thick here and in any case, he’s too high on endorphins to really care right now. In the morning he’ll no doubt be mortified, but. That’s for then.

*

In the morning, they meet Brendon, Spencer Smith, Andy and a bunch of Andy’s friends on a small spaceport outside Earth’s atmosphere. Among them is Matt Mixon: environmental scientist, and apparently, formerly of the All-Earth Ecological Institute, and apparently part time eco-terrorist. It’s a not-particularly nice backroom in a canteen restaurant, much less swanky and more boring than the places Pete prefers. but Patrick guesses they’re going for discreet today. Gabriel Saporta is also there, which means William is there, looking extremely satisfied and hanging off his arm. Patrick wonders briefly if Gabriel knows about William’s opinion of Mixon, but he needn’t have – as Mixon enters the room, Bill nudges Gabriel in the side and raises his eyebrows. Gabriel looks back and nods. Sisky laughs behind his hand and Andy glares at them all. Matt Mixon is apparently oblivious.

“Dr. Mixon,” says Spencer, standing up. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

Mixon laughs: “Now _that’s_ something I don’t hear everyday. Spencer Smith, right? I read your article on seasonal mitosis of the lesser spotted Xanophalian moss.”

“You _did_?” Spencer’s eyes get huge, and Brendon stage-whispers:

“When nerds get starstruck.”

“Are you calling me a nerd, Brendon Urie?” Spencer asks. “Really? You?”

With that Andy says “Okay everyone, let’s get to business. You all know why we’re here. Everyone who doesn’t know everyone, that is Matt Mixon, probably the best environmental biologist alive today –“ Mixon rolls his eyes, but Smith gives an appreciative little nod, “Kyle Johnson and Ryan Morgan. They’re pretty good too. That’s Spencer Smith, he’s our in with the establishment and that’s-“ he narrows his eyes at Brendon: “Why are you here?”

“I brought Spencer,” Brendon chirps.

Andy hesitates, then says, “Okay.” Pete’s apparently letting him handle this one, sitting back with his eyes narrowed and chewing on the end of a pen. To the casual observer, it might look like he’s not paying attention, but he is.

“And this is Gabriel,” says William smugly. He’s sitting sideways across Saporta’s lap now, looking like the cat that got the cream.  
“You can think of me as an investor,” says Gabriel helpfully. All the scientists look at him. Tension is palpable in the room. Andy doesn’t seem too happy with it either, but he clearly isn’t about to turn down Gabriel’s money.

“Alright,” Pete says and puts the pen down. “Subject to flight checks and maintenance, et cetera, we’re set to leave in 3 days, that is, this Thursday. Travie will bring the ship out to loading dock 12, off-Earth, where I want everybody assembled by 0800. In case you hadn’t gathered yet, I’m putting Andy and Mixon in charge for the duration of this mission. You’ll be briefed and assigned duties during the mission, and once initial survey is taken, probably assigned into smaller teams for more specific tasks. Once we get to the planet, we’ll assign you teams.” There are nods all around the table. Then:

“Just a minute,” Spencer Smith says: “We need a medical doctor.”

“I’m a medical doctor,” says Maja, and Patrick blinks. At this point, he’s barely surprised anymore.

“Any other questions?” asks Andy. 

“Yeah,” says one of Mixon’s guys. Patrick’s trying hard to keep up, there are a lot of names here. “I’d kind of like to know what Mr. Saporta’s interest is,” and he points at Saporta. William frowns but whatever he’s about to say, Gabriel cuts him off:

“I’m a philanthropist,” says Gabriel: “And, like you, I have a deep interest in biology.”

“Not just an interest,” William objects, sliding off Gabriel’s lap like he wants to make his point properly: “A grant foundation and everything. Google his name, you’ll see the kind of work his family has supported. Just because someone’s born rich, doesn’t automatically make them an asshole.”

“Babe, you say the sweetest things,” says Gabriel.

“Anyone else?” asks Andy.

No-one speaks up, so the room pretty much breaks off into small group conversations.

“Alright alright,” says Pete over the noise: “We’re done here. See you all on Thursday. Don’t be late, time is of the essence people.”  
Everyone starts to shuffle out, not keen to spend any more time than necessary in the back room. Patrick watches Bill and Gabriel giggling together, then Gabriel turns away, and Patrick catches a strange look, blank and troubled, come over his face. Then its gone again. Its probably nothing. A man of his Gabriel’s influence probably has a whole range of problems to think about, multiple projects and investments going on at once. But it’s – strange. Patrick can’t get it out of his mind, and that afternoon, when Pete’s tapping away on his laptop back in their hotel room, Patrick says,

“Pete?”

“Hmm?”

“How much do you know about Gabriel? Like, have you worked with him?”

“Not directly. But I approve of his investments. And donations. Et cetera. Plus Bill’s with him, so…”

“Yeah,” says Patrick.

“Why?” Pete turns from the laptop, looks at Patrick sharply. “What do _you_ know about him?”

“Nothing. It’s nothing, never mind.”

“No, you’ve said it now. What’s the problem?”

“Literally nothing, I swear. He just weirds me out a bit, it’s just me, I’ll get over it.”

Pete looks at him for a long moment. Then: “Good,” he says. “Cos it’s not like we’ve got a lot of options here.”

“I know,” Patrick says. “Never mind. Forget I said anything.”

But Pete won’t (Pete has never forgotten a word Patrick’s said, even when it looked like he wasn’t listening) and Patrick won’t, he’ll put it aside and remind himself not to see things that aren’t there. They’ll soon have enough to occupy them in any case, and the excitement he’d felt in Anderson’s office starts sneaking on him again. An unknown planet. Mysterious, possibly life-bearing oceans. The chance to save a new ecosphere. Sometimes it’s still hard to believe this is Patrick’s life, but in truth – he’s rarely complaining.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is there a word for getting banned from an Institute? This has been driving me insane. Is it debarred? In the University sector you just get fired (as far as I know. It hasn't happened to me yet XD).


	4. Chapter 4

“Alright campers, fasten your seatbelts, we’re about to go to hyperdrive,” Travie’s voice echoes over the PA, and Patrick grabs the nearest seat in the lounge. Brendon remains standing – apparently, he enjoys the bizarre sensation of the ship going into hyperdrive:

“You’re a freak,” says Patrick, when Brendon inevitably ends up on the floor, flat on his back:

“Yeah,” says Brendon happily: “But that’s my charm.”

There’s no answer for that, really, so Patrick sits foward and holds onto the handrail, watching space blur. No matter how many times he’s seen it, hyperspace is still crazy. The senation is something like being on a rollercoaster, but with drag, like you’re just approaching the peak of a hill before the car begins an epic dive to the bottom.

“How long does this go on for?” grits out Spencer, who is sitting next to Patrick looking white-ish green, gripping the rail for dear life.

“As long as the engines hold out, theoretically,” says Sisky cheerfully. “You gonna puke? We have bags. I’d appreciate it if you didn’t puke on   
the furniture.”

“Hold…out?” Spencer’s eyes widen.

“Travie will drop us out of hyperspace _way_ before that,” Patrick gives Sisky a look. “Don’t worry, he knows what he’s doing.”

“I think I might need that bag now,” Spencer says miserably. Sisky produces one (Patrick thinks it used to be filled with takeout) and Brendon stands behind Spencer, patting him awkwardly on the back while he throws up for several minutes.

“You should go to the bridge,” Patrick advises: “There’s less distortion.”  
So Brendon takes Spencer by the arm and they limp off to the bridge together. Hyperspace folds around them for several minutes (not minutes, obviously, that’s the point, but it feels like eight or ten minutes to a human before Travie says:

“Dropping out,” and the ship lurches once before space resolves back into stars and galaxies. Patrick breathes out, and Pete’s voices comes over the com, jubilant:

“Welcome to the Epsilon Cluster, guys and girls! Give it up for Travie!”

There’s a loud round of a applause and several cheers from around the street. 

“Alright, alright,” Travie chuckles. “Keep your belts on, we’ll be entering orbit within a few minutes.”

“Wow,” Sisky leans across Patrick and stares out the window: “It’s gorgeous.”

Epsilon 7 is something like Earth, as Patrick imagines Earth might have been billions of years ago. Clouds swirl around the atmosphere, and   
as they descend, thick forests surge upwards to meet them. Green-blue oceans cover much of the planet’s surface, swirling with mists. Huge waves crash against the beaches. The panel above Patrick’s head pings twice, and an oxygen mask drops down – observational tests show the planet’s atmosphere is breathable, but no-one’s about to test that until they’ve sampled it. 

“Prepare for landing,” Travie’s voice comes muffled through his mask, and then the planet is rushing up to meet to them, there’s a bang-bump as the ship makes contact, and they whizz-roar across the open vista. They come to a standstill, there’s a moment of complete, suspended silence, then Travie calls out:

“Whooo! We made it, campers! You may now unfasten your safety belts, and thanks for flying Travie McCoy airlines.”

There’s a flurry of activity as people unbuckle – the rec den is crowded with their new additions, despite the fact that Andy elected to fly with the Fuck City guys in their own ship. Everybody meets out by the steps with their oxygen masks still in place, but Spencer is holding up a meter, which beeps a couple of times and then flashes green: he gives the group a thumbs up, and they all remove their oxygen masks at the same times. The air is muggy and thick, but quite breathable, and Patrick exhales in relief.

“It’s hot as shit here,” Sisky complains. “Can we take our suits off?”

“One minute” Mixon is scanning is the air with a suspiciously homemade-looking piece of equipment. It beeps and the screen flashes. 

“Okay,” he says. “Though for the pale skinned amongst you I’d recommend sunscreen.”

They all peel off their gloves, and when the atmosphere doesn’t immediately fry skin, start to remove the rest of their environmental suits. Patrick’s wearing a long-sleeved cotton shirt under his, but he can already feel that the sun is not his friend here.

“Alright,” says Andy. “We’re going to split into teams of three. Me, Pete and Kyle are going to work on setting up base camp. You see that outcropping over there, where the river forms a basin? That’s gonna be our be our first setup.” He goes on to assign tasks and groupings. “Patrick, you’re with Matt, you’re gonna be surveying the forest area to the west of the campsite. Take….” He scans the group: “Gabriel.” 

Patrick’s heart sinks a little.

They gather what they need and then head off. Patrick grabs a water bottle, sunscreen, some trail mix, and a hiking pole. The terrain isn’t too steep, but he’ll use to push the dense foliage aside. Andy and Kyle are hard at work already, setting up the tent poles, moving with the easy sync of old friends. Pete is sitting down playing with his phone. He is the only person in the group still wearing a hoodie.

Gabriel and Matt Mixon are each about a foot taller than Patrick, with leg length to correspond, so he’s working hard to keep up before they even hit the treeline. Matt gives him a sympathetic smile and slows the pace a bit. Gabriel does not appear to notice. At the treeline, Matt takes some latitude and longitude measurements, then hands Patrick a camera.

“What should I photograph?” Patrick asks.

“Everything,” Matt himself is filming. “Especially anything that looks alive.”

Gabriel snorts a suppressed laugh, and Patrick prickles.

“And you,” Matt says to Gabriel: “Can hold the branches back.”

Patrick smirks, but Gabriel gives a good natured salute – he has very long limbs, and its easy for him to hold back the fronds as Patrick ducks under the canopy.

Darkness falls over them. Inside the forest, its heavy and wet, quiet as the grave. No, not the grave – the womb, Patrick thinks, thick and wet and alive. The trees are clustered closely. Wide, flat leaves glisten with dew. Pink and purple flowers, as big as Patrick’s hands, thrust their stigma and stamen in their faces. It’s dark. Unlike a forest on earth, no birds trill, nothing rustles in the bushes. The air is sticky-sweet, dripping with pollen. Patrick breathes in and makes him dizzy –

“Alright?” Gabriel grabs his arm, Patrick hadn’t realized he was listing to one side a little.

“Fine,” Patrick frowns and shakes him off, maybe a little too sharply. Gabriel puts his hands up in a gesture of surrender:

“Alright man, whatever jeez. I was just trying to help

Utilizing their sticks and blades, they make path deeper into the trees, finding inroads where the taller trees have crowded out the bushes and left space at human walking height. Patrick’s camera clicks and whirrs. They stop intermittently to take soil samples and pick up small stones. The trees grow so dense that the sun is almost hidden

“Flowering plants mean insect life,” Matt narrates his filming, “In every ecosystem we’ve encountered. And yet the air is still. None of the buzzing and scuttling we’d expect to hear in a forest of this development. How are the plants pollinating?”

“Could the insects be too small for us to see?” Patrick suggests.

“It’s possible. But look at the size of the flowers, it seems like microscopic insects would be too small to carry the pollen.”

“Maybe the flowers have another method of pollination,” Gabriel says: “Like, they scatter their seeds? The way dandelions do on earth but like….bigger.”

Mixon nods, and Patrick feels mildly annoyed. It seems like everything Saporta does annoys him, and he doesn’t have a good reason for it. It’s not like him to take against someone so strongly, discomfits him, and only increases the intensity of his dislike.

Mixon sets them to gathering samples, wearing gloves to avoid touching the unknown flora. Patrick carefully extracts part of a flowering shrub, digging it out by the roots, and packs it into a sample bag with enough roots and soil to last it until they can run a diagnostic. Then he goes foer a bright purple flower. Just as he touches the stalk, the flower rears back, and releases a spray of clear liquid directly at Patrick’s face. On instinct, he turns away, bringing his hands up to cover his face and eyes. It still manages to spray his arms and hands right through the gloves, and a little bit on his cheek near his ear. It burns – like bad, intense sunburn all at once.

“Argh!” he cries out, and in an instant, Gabriel has severed the flower which falls to the ground before it can do any further damage. The stem wilts “Jesus Christ,” Patrick says, and starts to trying to peel of his gloves, which are soaked with the stuff.

“Here,” Gabriel quickly helps him, and Patrick wants to say stop, but he _is_ helping, and getting his gloves and jacked off provides immediate relief. Meanwhile Matt is opening his water bottle, but Gabriel says “No,” and produces a bottle of something out of his bag. He grabs Patrick’s arm – which hurts like fuck, thanks very much – and pours the solution over it. 

All at once, it stops burning.

“Oh!” says Patrick. “Um, thank you!”

“Do your hands as well,” Gabriel offers him the bottle. “And the bit on your face.”

Patrick wipes the solution all over the skin that has been burned – it remains red and sore, but the intense burning goes down fast.

“What the – what is that?” Matt frowns.

“Alkaline,” says Gabriel shortly and puts the bottle back in his bag. Matt’s eyes narrow for a second but he says nothing. Patrick is too relieved to say more than

“Thank you,” again. 

“Let’s get back,” Matt says. “We have enough samples for now, and Patrick, you should see Maja.”

“It’s a first degree acid burn,” Maja says, when Patrick is sitting up on her makeshift trolley in the med-tent. “With a small percentage of second degree on your arm here. You’re lucky. If Saporta hadn’t had the alkaline to hand, it would have much worse. As it is you’ll need to change this dressing every day and apply antiseptic lotion. It should heal fine in a few days.”

“Thanks,” says Patrick.

“That’s it?” Pete demands. Naturally he’d insisted on coming with, even though Patrick had told him it wasn’t a big deal.

“Well, no,” Maja says. “I still have to do the dressing.”

“Aren’t you gonna give him anything for the pain?”

“There’s a numbing agent in the antiseptic, but can take some Tylenol if you want,” she tells Patrick. 

“I’m sure that will be fine,” says Patrick. Pete looks disgruntled but doesn’t say anything. Patrick gets patched up, and has dinner,   
something niggling at the back of his mind the whole time that he can’t quite pin down….

…It’s only later, in his sleeping bag, with Pete turned away and asleep early for once that it hits him.

This is an unknown planet. Humans have ever set foot here before.

_So how did Gabriel know that the liquid was acid?_

 

*

“Alright everybody, morning debrief,” Andy is standing in the middle of camp, wearing khaki trousers, combat boots, and an ancient t-shirt that says ‘Workers Take the Factories’. Fairly incredibly, he’ll pulling it off. Because Andy has a quiet voice – or maybe because it’s barely sunrise on a planet where the nights are pretty damn short anyway – everyone just looks at him then goes back to eating and talking and fixing the bits of their tents where the drafts got in in the night. 

“You got coffee?” Pete emerges and sits down next to him, squinting. His hair is sticking up in the way Patrick can’t quite tell is deliberate. 

He hands Pete the tin mug he’s been sipping and Pete attempts to chug it, then yelps: “Hot!” Patrick rolls his eyes and mutters:

“That’s what you get for trying to steal it all.”

“Hey!” Mixon yells, and everyone does look up this time. “Everybody! Less chatting, more working, we’re on the clock here!”

“I would do him so fast,” Bill moans quietly.

So they all get out their notebooks and report on their adventures of the previous day. It turns out Patrick wasn’t the only one who met the attack flower (though he was the only one who got sprayed by it, which is typical). 

“This is excellent,” Mixon scribbles rapidly. There is of course no way to use their computers, save a couple of phones that worked for a   
while off the ship’s generator. Travie put the kibosh on that one pretty quick though. 

“Sorry, how is it excellent?” Brendon raises his hand. 

“Well, the plant has a defence mechanism, presumably to deter attack,” says Spencer. “That means there’s something smart enough here to   
find and eat the plant.”

“Or,” Mixon puts in, “The plant is the smart one. Maybe the acid is to tenderize its prey – “ Patrick winces “-though I’d expect to see more of   
a trapping mechanism in that case.”

“Anyway,” says Andy, “If Matt and Spencer want to make a start analysing those samples today, and the rest of you stick with the teams you   
had yesterday. I can take Matt’s place.”

“No I will,” says Pete. Andy side-eyes him. As a rule, they don’t put the couples together, and a trio of Pete, Patrick and Saporta might not   
be best placed to get themselves out of an environmental hazard. Maybe Saporta has more secret ninja skills Patrick doesn’t know about.

Which reminds him.

He really, really needs to talk to Pete alone at some point.

“Okay,” says Andy after a moment. “Questions, comments?”

“We’re gonna need some more sample containers” – Kyle.

“Someone ate my M and Ms,” – Brendon.

“That was you, Brendon,” – Spencer.

“Not those ones, I had the peanut kind!”

“All right! We’re done here, everybody synchronise watches, make sure you have a flare in your pack and we’ll meet back here in six hours.”

Patrick goes to touch Pete’s arm, tries to draw him aside for a second. But then Gabriel says,

“Shall we go?” and Pete finishes the coffee, says

“Sure,” and they all everyone heads off into the figurative sunset.


	5. Chapter 5

The next few days pass quickly – much in the same way, they explore the forests and get further into the undergrowth. There are no flowers deep in the forest, just dense, dark bushes with spiny leaves. He hasn’t gotten Pete alone since the flower incident – they’re sharing tents with at least two other guys per camp – but he manages to take Andy aside and tell him what happened. To his surprise, Andy doesn’t seem over concerned:

“It was probably an educated guess,” he said. “Saporta’s done a fair bit of exploring, its not a stretch to think he would carry some basic gear.”

“Kind of a big chance to take on an educated guess,” Patrick argued. “What if it made it worse? Not that I’m not appreciative, but he knew was he was doing, Andy. I’m sure of it.”

“Do you want me to talk to him?”

Patrick hesitates. Then: “No,” he says. “No, not yet. Just keep an eye out, okay?”

By the fifth day of surveying, if Patrick’s totally honest, he’s starting to get a tiny bit bored. There are no further signs of intelligent life, and foliage duty can only hold so much intrigue for a non-geologist. Matt and Kyle are starting to map the terrain against photographs taken from orbit, and its clear that the planet has plenty of variety. Patrick’s out with Andy and Bill today, and he’s just working through some scrubby bushes, checking for insect nests, and considering trying to swap with someone assigned beach terrain – the oceans were supposed to be the promising factor, after all – when there’s a whizz and a bang from the sky on their west side, and he looks up, startled. 

“That’s a flare,” says Andy calmly, as white light explodes in a starburst. They quickly pick up their things and start off in the direction of the signal. Realizing where they’re headed, Patrick mentally retracts his wish that he’d gotten to study the shorelines. Sisky, Mixon and Spencer had been working on the beach – with Saporta, Patrick remembers suddenly. It’s a good fifteen minutes’ jog to the shore, and Patrick thinks abruptly that they should have cc radios, why didn’t anyone think of that, or they should have stayed closer together, perhaps, but it’s too late now. The foliage thins abruptly and then they’re obliged to scrabble down some cliff paths. Water comes into view. Pete, Brendon and Maja hurry down the opposite slope and they meet on the flat sands. The beach is deserted. A windshield is toppled over, and the surveying equipment lies strewn over the rocks. 

A large telescope lies broken. Ashes and the canister from the flare form a dark circle in the sand.

“Adam?!” Bill shouts, vaulting down off the last rock. Brendon yells,

“Spencer?”

“Sisky!” Pete shouts from the other end of the beach: “Saporta, what’s going on?”

On the slap of the waves answers them. They meet up at the campsite, panting.

“You guys see anything?” Pete demands.

“Just the flare,” says Andy.

“Oh shit,” says Brendon with huge eyes: “I got Spencer kidnapped. Or eaten. I totally got Spencer eaten. I talked him into doing this and now he’s been eaten by the lifeforms -“  
“Okay, let’s not jump to conclusions,” says Andy. He kneels down and starts to sort through the equipment. “Almost everything is intact here. But the water and energy bars are missing. So is Matt’s journal, and he’d never have come out without that.”

“This makes no sense!” Pete exclaims. “How can they have had time to gather their food up but not leave some kind of message?”

“Guys,” Bill says, very hushed and uncannily serious. He’s staring down at a patch of ground near the abandoned windshield.

Three puddles of red blood are sinking into the sand.

They all stare at each other for a few minutes.

“What,” says Brendon, then gives up on going anywhere with that question.

“Is it possible….” Maja trails off.

“Is what possible?” Bill snaps. “I’d say we’re open to all fucking options at this moment.”

“Well,” says Maja sharply. “I’ve read studies on exploring parties that disappeared before. Some scientists believe in atmospheric contaminants that can…well…affect the human brain.”

“You’re saying they went crazy and turned on each other?” Bill demands.

“You just said we’re open to all options! Do you see any fucking predators around here? Has there even been any sign of anything that could take a human out?”

 _“What the fuck do you mean take them out! They’re not taken out!”_

“Oh excuse me, vanished of their own free will, breaking necessary equipment and injuring someone in the process! In case you didn’t notice, William, we’re the only people who have ever set foot on this planet!”

Patrick looks at Andy. Andy stares back. Patrick shrugs. He has no particular loyalty to Saporta, and the mission’s pretty well fucked anyway with the loss of half their team.

“I don’t think we’re the only people who have ever set foot on this planet,” he says. Everyone stops and looks at him.

“What?” Pete narrows his eyes. 

“I think someone’s been here before,” Patrick says. “More specifically, I think Saporta has been here before, or at the very least, people working for him.”

“Patrick,” Pete stares at him, looking almost wounded. Bill just stares. “What are you talking about?” 

“Think about it,” Patrick argues “What is he even funding this for? He has no motive here. Then on the first day, when that plant sprayed me with the acid stuff, how did he know   
the antidote? Why did he happen to be carrying it on him? I know how badly you guys wanted to get out here, and I don’t blame you at all, but there’s been something off with him since day one and now Spencer and Sisky are missing.” He blows his breath out. He maybe wasn’t meaning to say all of that, but it’s out now.

“Patrick’s right,” says Andy. “We’ve been careless. I should have listened to you earlier, Patrick. I’m sorry.”

“Wait, wait,” Bill looks like he might be about to cry. “What are you all saying? Gabe wouldn’t – he’s – “

Pete shares a look with Maja, who’s faltering:

“It was a fairly generic acid,” she says. “There are correlates on lots of worlds. He could have encountered a related species….”

“But it doesn’t make sense!” Pete exclaims. “Say Gabriel is behind this, what do we think could have happened here? There’s no way he could have overpowered all three of the others, probably not Mix alone!”

“Unless,” Maja says uncomfortably, “He had chemical assistance.”

There’s a long, heavy silence between them all of them.

“I don’t believe it,” Bill shakes his head. He paces back and forth. “I just don’t believe it.”

“Well,” says Pete. “We’re not drawing any conclusions. Everybody get back to the camp, we’ll collect the others then head back to the ship to run sensors over the planet surface.”  
For a second Bill looks torn, like he doesn’t want to leave the last place they’d seen Sisky, but after a last desperate scan of the beach and the water they all head back to the ship, collecting Travie, Joe and Ryan from the day’s camp along the way. 

“We’ll find them,” Travie tells Bill. “I just upgraded the sensors last week, let me just get us some atmosphere-“

“Then why didn’t we pick up whatever _took_ them?!” Bill half-yells, and Pete says:

“William.”

It’s a voice he doesn’t use often, especially on crew, but when he does there’s no doubt of who’s really in charge of the whole operation.  
Travie takes them into a low orbit, shuts off unnecessary programs, and resets the ship’s programs to scan for mammalian life forms. 

“Can’t they go any faster?” Brendon asks.

“They _can_ ,” says Travie, always a little annoyed by comments that could be perceived as a slight to his beloved ship, “If you like breathing recycled carbon dioxide.”

Brendon subsides. There’s little anyone can do for the next hour, though Bill is all for running off and starting a search party at the beach:

“Waste of energy,” Pete overrules him. “We didn’t find any indicators of a direction, and we have a whole planet to search, Bill. Let the technology do its job.”

So Bill paces back and forth in the lounge, tugs at his long hair – Patrick feels bad for him, and inexplicably guilty – bearer of bad news and all that, he guesses. To distract   
himself, he helps Travie man the sensors. On the main screen is a diagram of the planet, with purple waves spreading to show the areas scanned. A progress bar in the corner inches forward. The purple waves spread: 50%. 65%. Nothing. Patrick slides a look at Travie but his eyes are fixed on the screen. He’s silent. Pete comes over and puts his arms around Patrick’s shoulders – he’s looking for reassurance, so Patrick pulls him down and allows him to cling discreetly under the cover of leaning.

“It’ll be alright,” he mutters absently. Pete presses his face to the top of Patrick’s head, just briefly.

75%. Nothing. A sinking feeling is starting in Patrick’s stomach. His eyes are glued to the screen for the final minutes of the scan, as the purple covers the diagram and show up –

“Nothing,” says Travie, mystified. “That’s impossible. They didn’t just _disappear_ -“

“Airborne pathogens,” murmers Maja again. “It’s possible they all-“

“Don’t say it,” Bill cuts her off. His eyes are red, angry like he’s working to stop himself crying. She just raises her eyebrows at him.

“Wait,” says Joe, leans over Patrick, and taps a few keys. “Something’s wrong here. Travie, look at this-“

“You’re right! Hey Pete, the planet isn’t blank at all – someone’s jamming our signal!”

“Oh my God,” says Kyle excitedly, practically pushing Travie out of the way. “You’re right. There’s someone down there.”

“Maja, can you trace that?” Pete asks.

“I can try,” Maja’s pulling her tablet out, rapidly downloading information from Travie’s station. 

“This is amazing,” says Kyle.

“Amazing?!” Bill yells. “They’ve been kidnapped!”

“By technologically superior beings!” Kyle yells back. “Trust me, Mix will not mind!”

“Alright, alright,” Pete cuts in. “Joe, help Maja. Kyle, you and Andy collate everything we have on the planet so far. Everyone else, get some rest and something to eat and drink if you need to – I don’t know when we’ll be able to make camp again. Patrick, come with me.” He blows out his breath and heads off the bridge, into the main corridor. Patrick follows him.

“What’s up?”

“I’m sorry,” Pete says. He looks miserable. “You were right. I should have listened to you, I was just so eager to get going on this.”

“It’s not your fault,” says Patrick. 

“Yes it is. My crew depend on me and I let them down. I was too close to the situation – I was selfish.”

Objectively, there’s a strong case to say Pete is right. He was too close. But,

“We don’t know it was Saporta,” Patrick is compelled to try and make him feel better.

“We have a pretty good case against him,” Pete says quietly. He gives Patrick a small, sad smile, looking like a little boy, and Patrick wants to wrap him up in his arms and hold   
him, but he settles for a quick pat on the shoulder and says

“We’ll figure it out.”

Pete nods and looks sideways. “You should get some rest too. I need you ready for action.”

“And you,” Patrick says.

“Can’t,” says Pete. 

“Not with that attitude.”

Pete rolls his eyes and goes to do whatever he does with Andy when he and Patrick can’t get on the same page. Patrick eats a meal then goes to lie down for an hour, meaning   
only to take a short nap, but he must have been more tired than he thought because the next thing he knows, Travie’s excited voice is hailing them through the com:

“Everybody get to the bridge, we have a location.”

Patrick jerks up and grabs his hat, meeting Bill on the way and the others as they scramble through the main doors. Travie and Maja are standing in front of the main screen, where a diagram with gridlines of the planet is projected. A red circle beeps and flashes over one of the grid squares.

“There’s a ship here,” Travie says, “And they’re blocking our scanners.”

“A ship?” asks Pete.

“And a sweet one, by the looks of things. That’s some advanced cloaking. They’re grounded, parked some three hundred miles north of the beach where our guys were taken.   
Looks life a cliff region.”

“Pirates,” Andy says. “Goddamit, Wentzcorp is behind this.”

“You think Anderson could have sold us out?” Patrick asks Pete.

“No,” Pete says. “He’d be throwing himself under the bus too.”

“Well, what are we waiting for?” Bill exclaims. “We have better firepower than some shitty pirate ship. Let’s go get them back!”

“We don’t know that,” Pete says. “They have the technology to disguise themselves and jam our scanners, they could have some kind of sophisticated weaponary we don’t know   
about. Especially if, yes, Wentzcorp is behind it. Patrick, Joe and Maja , come with me. We’re gonna use a shuttle to get close and try hailing them. Andy, you have the bridge.”

“I’m coming too,” says Bill.

“No,” says Pete, “You’re too close to this.”

“Fuck you, Pete, they have Sisky!” Bill is pratically tearing his hair out. “If you try to make me stay behind I’ll just follow you.”

“You’ll do nothing of the sort,” says Pete in the commanding voice. Then he relents: “You can come. IF you can keep your head, listen to me, and control yourself.”

Bill bites his lip and looks tormented, but nods.

“If Bill’s going, I’m going too,” Brendon sticks his chest out. 

“Oh Bren,” Pete sighs. “You’re not even my crew.”

“Which means you’re not responsible for what happens to me! Besides, Spencer isn’t crew either, and he’s _kidnapped_. The shuttle can seat six.”

“I want to leave room for weapons.”

“He can have my place,” Joe says.

Pete throws up his hands. “Just for that, Joe, you’re sending the message to Fleet Command if gets himself killed.”  
Joe gives a mock salute and Brendon jumps up and down, apparently not bothered in the slightest by the comment on his mortality. They all head down to the shuttle bay. Patrick takes the helm, and quickly downloads the target co-ordinates from the ship’s intranet. Brendon takes the co-pilot’s chair and starts pulling up maps. He still looks very young to Patrick, but something about him has changed – he’s more focused, less scatterbrained. Even under stress, he seems capable. Patrick feels a swell of pride, and strange pang of nostalgia for the Fleet.

As they zip through the low atmosphere, trees and beach give way to vast oceans. They’re more colourful than the oceans of earth, hints of purple and pink. Mist swirls on the   
surface. Patricks not a poetic sort of guy, he’s more of a pragmatist, but as he glances down its easy to imagine the beginnings of some secret life form hidden in the ocean depths. Brendon reads out directions, and as they near the target the sea becomes more turbulent and rough. Brendon and Patrick exchange a look, but Patrick doesn’t say anything, just focuses on guiding them safely through the weather.

“That’s it,” says Brendon abruptly, ponting aabruptly to a line on on the horizon. They’ve reached the far shore. They all sit up straighter. Sure enough, the line resolves into   
jagged cliffs and their sensors start going crazy – clearly the jamming tech doesn’t work so well at close quarters.

“Stop here,” Pete says. “Patrick, take us higher.” They get some altitude, and start trying to hail the vessel:

“There’s no sign of any coms, but they must be reading us,” Patrick frowns, then: “Wait!” Either the jammer fails completely, or the other ship turns it off: “They just came online.” The grounded ship appears as a white circle on the monitor, and tracking reports they’re also being read.

“Give me the com,” says Pete. “Alright, this is Captain Peter Wentz III of the Decaydance. Who are you, and what is your business here?”

There’s a crackle and hiss of dead air, then Gabriel Saporta’s voice says

“Peter,”

And Patrick’s stomach drops, and Bill gasps, and Brendon yells

“Saporta!”

Pete says:

“Gabriel. What’s happening? Are the others with you?”

“Yes, they’re here. You should come down,” says Gabriel. “You won’t be harmed.”

“Forgive me if I need some security on that.”

“What do you want?”

Pete paused. Then: “You. I want you. Come out in a shuttle, alone and unarmed.”

“That sounds fair. But – I can’t come alone.”

“Gabe how could you do this!” William yells, anguished.

“Bill…” Saporta sounds uncertain, even through the com, but then he says: “Just – sent me your co-ordinates. I’ll have to bring a, a colleague, but you have my word that won’t   
harm you.”

“Yeah, your word isn’t exactly golden around here right now.”

“We’re reading five of you,” Saporta points out. “And a shit-ton of heavy phasers. That shuttle has shuttle has the firepower to shoot our pod out of the air if you wanted to.”  
Patrick looks at Pete. 

“Do it,” Pete says grimly. A few minutes later, sensors report a smaller shuttle approaching, and the portholes aligning for passenger transfer. Their shuttle extends a metal chute,   
which affixes and adjust to the pod’s exit portal. All guns are aimed at the entrance when Saporta disembarks. Right behind him is a tall, beefy guy with wild ginger hair and   
close-set blue eyes. He’s also holding a gun, but surprisingly.

“Put your hands up,” says Pete. He’s holding his phased but not aiming it. Patrick does the same, and feels more secure with his hand on the hilt, as Saporta places his hands obediently on either side of his head. The other guy doesn’t budge an inch. 

“I don’t answer to you,” says the man, 

“I said put your hands up,” says Pete, raising his gun.

and in one fluid movement, grabs Patrick by the arm and puts the barrel of the gun against his temple. Patrick freezes, cursing himself for standing too close. His instinct is to   
struggle, but the other guy has some serious muscles, and besides, one wrong move could result in his head being blown off. He holds still.

“Dave, come on,” says Gabriel. “Brandon said he wants to talk to them undamaged, remember?”

“Brandon says a lot of things,” sneers Patrick’s captor, “And they will be. Just as long as they co-operate.”

“Where are the others?” Pete demands. His eyes flicker to Patrick and back, but he keeps poker-faced.

“They’re safe,” says the one named Dave coolly. “As long as you come with us quietly.”

“And if we kill you instead?” Joe grits out.

“Then this one dies, and your friends on the planet die too. Our boss has tracking devices on both of us.” 

“Gabriel, what is this, what’s going on?!” Bill finally explodes. “How could you betray us like this-“

“Betray!” Dave laughs a short, ugly laugh. “Gabe was never on your side, little boy. He’s with us.”

“And who exactly are you?” Pete says coolly.

“We work for a man named Brandon Flowers,” says Patrick’s captor. “And he’s been just dying to meet you.”


	6. Chapter 6

As soon as the words left his captor’s lips, Patrick felt his eyes widen. Brandon Flowers was a notorious space pirate, and his crew, The Killers, are wanted across the systems for everything from theft and kidnapping to the more predictable murder. They tend to be involved with high stakes heists where a good amount of money is involved, though – what they’re doing _here_ is a mystery.

“Move,” says his captor, and jostles the gun very slightly, and a very very tiny squeak might escape from Patrick’s lips (what, he never claimed to be the action hero type, okay?). 

“Alright,” says Pete quickly. “We’ll come.”

“Don’t,” says Gabriel to Brendon, who has inched away, and has one hand sneaking towards the distress signal. Brendon freezes.

“That was the right answer, Now get into the shuttle, one by one. Keep your hands where I can see them. One false move, and I will shoot without a second thought. So if you value your little buddy here, not to mention the cleanliness of your shuttle, I suggest you do exactly as I say when I say it. Now move.”  
One by one they step into the other shuttle, then Dave shoves Patrick forwards with the gun still pressed to his temple. It hasn’t escaped Patrick’s notice that the two times in his life he’s ended up with a gun in his face are both intrinsically connected to Pete Wentz. Saporta takes the controls whilst Dave sits back, relaxed, keeping Patrick as collateral: Patrick’s trying not to move too much, but Bill is directly in his line of sight, staring at the back of Saporta’s chair with expression of shock on his face. The shuttle glides down to the planet, and a large silver ship appears through the clouds, parked on a flat, wide promontory. It’s three or four times bigger than the Decaydance, which bodes badly for the number of crew members they’re about to be facing. There’s something familiar about the ship, but no matter how Patrick wracks his brain, he can’t place it. They line up to a portal and enter the hangar. Just as they do, a door slides open on the far side, and a man of average height with dark hair and a goatee – yep, that’s an honest-to-god goatee and mustache – walks though. A whole group of muscular intimidating types are at his back, and there is no doubt whatsoever in Patrick’s mind that this is Brandon Flowers. 

“Good job, guys,” he says calmly to Dave and Saporta, then has his men confiscate everybody’s weapons before Patrick is allowed to move. Everyone is lined up on the deck, and once they’re disarmed, Dave removes his gun from Patrick’s head. Patrick breathes a huge sigh of relief and all his muscles seem to untense at once, but he has no time to enjoy it before he’s being shoved out of the shuttle and onto the deck to join the others. Pete is visibly fuming, fists clenched, looking like he’s barely restraining himself from punching Flowers in the face, and Bill still seems kind of in shock, staring at Saporta with something like appeal in his face, but Saporta’s face is impassive as he looks to Flowers.

“So,” says Flowers. “The intrepid crew of the Decaydance. I’ve heard a lot about you.”

“For all the gods’ sakes, cut the villain speech, would you?” Pete snarls. “You’re like a walking caricature, Flowers.”

“Careful,” Flowers tuts and raises his eyebrows archly: “I do have leverage.”

“Speaking of, where are our friends?” says Joe. “What have you done with them?”

“I haven’t done anything with them,” Flowers blinks, all fake innocence. “Mr. Saporta here delivered them to me, very kindly, and I’ve kept them quite safe for the inevitable moment our parties discovered each other, which, oh look, has arrived.”

“What are you doing here?” Brendon blurts out. “What do you want with us?”

“I want you,” says Brandon dangerously, sighting Brendon down like he’s a rabbit pinned by a fox: “To go. Away.”

“Excuse me?” says Pete.

“I want you to go away,” Brandon says again: “All of you. That mean you, Peter, take your little Lost Boys and get off this planet, do not return, do not pass go or   
collect £200 dollars. You keep silent, you report to no-one about your findings here, and we never need darken each other’s doorsteps again. Got it?”

“And if we don’t? Let me guess, you kill us all,” Joe rolls his eyes. “I don’t think so. We have friends who know where we are, for one thing.”

“Oh, you mean the remains of – what was is they called themselves, _Fuck City_?” Brandon wrinkles his nose: “Crude. Anyway, they’re all dead. Sorry. I killed them.”

“You’re lying,” Bill grits out.

“Oh William,” Brandon laughs nastily, “You don’t mind if I call you William, do you? Why would I lie? Who do I look like, your boyfriend?”

Bill looks completely devastated, and for a split second, Patrick thinks he sees distress cross Saporta’s face, but it’s gone as quickly as it was there.

“If you want us to co-operate in the slightest,” Pete says, “Your first move would be to show us that our friends are unharmed.”

“I didn’t say they were unharmed. I said I hadn’t done anything to them. Really. This is a thousand dollar suit Wentz, come on.”

Pete’s fists are clenched so tightly his knuckles have turned white, but - contrary to popular belief – Patrick knows he can control himself when he needs to. He makes sure their fingers brush as they are herded down a corridor made of chrome and steel plate. The ship is not just bigger but much newer and more powerful than the Decaydance – last time Patrick heard, Flowers wasn’t the richest pirate in the systems, so it seems he’s been in for a run of good luck lately.

“Quite something, isn’t she?” says Flowers in his stupid fake-cultured way. 

“Who’d you rob, an orphanage?” Pete snaps.

“As a matter of fact, she was a gift,” says Flowers. “Her name is Battle Born.”

“How pretentious.”

“Bit rich coming from you, Wentz. Besides, don’t you recognise her?”

“Oh, fuck me,” says Pete suddenly, as they emerge on the main deck. And the design falls into place. This is a modified class B6 D-line interstellar cruiser, a model favoured – and patented – by the Wentz Corp. Patrick turns to look at Pete, and his stomach lurches at the look of sadness on his face. There’s more than a skeleton crew at work, maybe thirty people, some of whom pause to look curiously at the little group of prisoners. But Pete is staring straight ahead at a panel on the wall with the ship’s serial number and insignia. The Wentz Corp insignia.

“You-…” Pete says to Flowers.

Flowers smirks. “I have to say, your old man’s a pleasure to work with. A true professional. Shame you didn’t take after him.”

For a split second, Patrick thinks Pete’s going to lose it and punch Flowers in the face, heavy artillery be damned, but the bodyguards shift and position their guns a bit and the tension relaxes.

“Why?” Pete demands.

“Like I’d tell you,” Flowers snorts. 

“Our friends,” Patrick reminds him. “You promised to take us to them.”

“Of course. Right this way.” With a fake gesture he guides them out of the main deck and through a narrower corridor. Patrick’s half afraid they’re heading for some kind of dungeon, but its just a set of quarters: guarded quarters naturally, both by personnel and a couple of energy barriers, but quarters nonetheless. The lock scans Flowers’ fingerprints and the energy barriers vanish. 

“Spencer!” Brendon yells the second they’re inside. He flings himself on his crewmate, who catches him and returns his hug. He’s wincing, though, and Patrick realises he’s sporting a decent black eye. Mixon has a split lip, halfway healed, and is holding one side protectively. Sisky has some dried blood at his hairline, staining his curls and winding down the left side of his face. Bill rushes up to him and squeezes him tight, then pushes his hair back and says

“Oh my God.”

“I’m fine,” Sisky assures him. 

“No you’re not,” Bill exclaims, inspecting the cut. “What happened? Are you hurt anywhere else?” 

“They put up a bit of resistance,” says Flowers coolly. “It was all very heroic and futile.”

William turns, and for the first time looks directly at Saporta. “You bastard,” he says.

“Bill-“

“You _lying bastard_. I believed in you, Gabriel, I defended you, because I didn’t believe it. Was this your plan the whole time we were together? Was I just an _in_ for you? Those things you said-“

“Bill-“ Saporta says again, but then Flowers lifts his gun and says

“Oh my God, save us the melodrama before I shoot someone just to shut you up.” He half-aims at Bill, then Sisky, running the crosshairs over a few of them before lowering it. Patrick looks around. There are equal numbers of Flowers’ guards to Decaydance crew in the room now, and a half-formed impulse for some kind of ambush is fluttering at his mind, but they’re all armed, and even by some miracle a few of them could get out of the cell without being shot, they’d be fried by the energy barrier. Its hopeless. Bill sits down on the edge of a bunk and pulls Sisky with him, keeping an arm around his shoulders. Sisky leans against him, looking very young. Flowers turns back to Pete:

“So. What I’ll need you to do, right now, is the summon the rest of your idiots. My people will escort you to the edge of the system, after we’ve searched you thoroughly for anything you might be tempted to remove from this fascinating planet. You’ll be free to go.”

“I don’t believe you,” says Pete.

 

“Well not all of you,” Flowers rolls his eyes: “Naturally. That would be totally pointless. I’ll be keeping at least a couple of you as security. Probably this one, seeing how concerned you were about him.” He waves his gun vaguely in Patrick’s direction, and Patrick winces – he sincerely hopes the safety’s on on that thing.   
“If you ever mention this mission to anyone, ever, we kill him. I’ll send you the video link. Then we hunt down the rest of you, and kill you slowly. Inconvenient, so don’t make us.” He offers Pete a communicator: “Go ahead.”

“Go fuck yourself,” says Pete.

“Fine,” Flowers sighs, and one his henchmen gives Pete a rough shove forward, and Patrick is grabbed from behind again by his arm. “Make it difficult.” And a steel barrel is pressed to Patrick’s temple once again. Pete looks at him, stricken, and something sinks coldly inside Patrick’s stomach. It occurs to him seriously for the first time that this could be how he dies. Pete loves him. But Pete is also responsible for the lives of his crew, his best friends, not to mention the Fuck City guys, Brendon and Spencer…

“Let me reiterate,” Flowers says, “That there is no need for bloodshed. Just summon the rest of your crew, Wentz. No-one need get hurt.”

“Do it Pete,” Mixon says resignedly. “He’s beaten us.”

Pete hesitates. He stares at Patrick. Patrick opens his mouth and the gun shifts against his temple.

“Sir,” says one of the guards as his communication clicks on: “We have a fix on the colony.”

Flowers pauses. Patrick feels his eyebrows raise into his hairline despite himself.

“Leave them,” Saporta urges. “We can lock them up securely. This will give them some time to consider cooperating.”

“Fine,” Flowers says. “Show our guests to some quarters. I’ll be on the bridge.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” says Bill, folding his arms. One of the heavies sighs, and physicaly lifts Bill by the arm. He struggles, but it’s a token really – the heavy   
looks like its barely worth the effort. Three minutes later, Bill, Patrick and Brendon are locked in one room, with Pete and Joe in another. “Fuck me,” says Bill, and sits down with his head in his hands. Brendon pats him awkwardly on the shoulder. Patrick tries the door – it’s a reflex, okay, imagine if he didn’t and then it turned out the door was open the whole time – then he sits down and says

“Well.”

“I can’t _fucking_ believe this,” Bill yells, clenching his fists like he’s ready to hit something, and Brendon edges back a bit nervously, then he says  
“What do you think he meant by the colony?”

“It’s the life form,” Patrick says. There’s so much going on it’s a bit hard to process, but this is definitely exciting: “It must be. They’re looking for the same thing we are –“

“And they’ve found it,” Brendon nods.

“Something tells me they’re not here to preserve it though.”

“Oh my God,” Bill groans into his hands. “They’re here to wipe it out, aren’t they? That’s why Wentz Corp hired them. They’re here to wipe out whatever life form is starting to evolve into intelligence here, so Wentz Corp can get their clearance. God dammit.”

“We’ll stop them. We’ll figure it out,” Patrick says, despite the fact he’s fresh out of ideas and the situation looks pretty damn hopeless from where he’s sitting.

“Patrick I’m sorry,” Bill says miserably. “I should have seen it. I should have seen through _him_.”

“It’s not your fault,” says Patrick. “You were….” What? In love? Charmed? Fooled? Too busy fucking? Patrick doesn’t know enough about Bill’s relationship with the Saporta to judge it.

“I should do something,” says Bill. “I should…”

“Okay, hold up, let’s not do anything rash,” says Patrick quickly. “I’m sure nobody holds you responsible, Bill. We all should have seen through him.”

Some time passes – its incredibly hard to judge with no clocks and no natural lighting – and Patrick sits around, mulling over the errors they’ve all made to bring them to this point. 

“I wonder what sort of colony it is,” Brendon says wistfully. “I bet its like - mermaids.”

“Mermaids?” Patrick can’t help but crack a little smile at that one.

“Sure. They’re intelligent sea creatures, right? And they live in colonies?”

“I think our scans would’ve picked mermaids up, Bren.”

“Maybe they’re like, really deep in the seas.”

“It could be something like the Cambrian explosion,” says Bill: “A tipping point into complex organisms.”

“If it is, they’ll have a hard time wiping it out,” says Patrick. “Unless they plan on just nuking all the oceans or something.” He pauses, then groans. “They’re just gonna nuke all the oceans or something, aren’t they? Jesus.”

Bill looks even more miserable, if possible, so Brendon says

“Maybe not!” and tries to distract them with a short exegsis on his life in the Fleet, before saying: “Man, I’m hungry. It must be well past lunchtime. You think they’re going to feed us soon? If they aren’t planning to kill us, they should feed us right?”

Sure enough, there’s a beep and a rumble from the hall, then a panel near the door opens. Three trays are stacked inside. Brendon takes them out – they hold   
prepacked lumps of grey mush, and bottles of water.

“Reconstituted oatmeal?” Brendon suggests, poking at his portion with a plastic fork. Patrick shrugs; he’s hungry too, and guesses he’ll need some energy for whatever happens next. The mush tastes of nothing much, maybe a hint of beef, but he chokes it down. Bill doesn’t touch his, despite Patrick’s prompting, so Brendon eats it instead. Every so often, a guard enters the room, checks they’re all behaving, then leaves again. Patrick’s brain is trying to formulate some vague plan – when the door’s open, someone could slip – could they take out the guard? – it’s useless. None of the action movie scenarios are going to work here. Enough time passes for another meal to appear. Brendon’s taking a nap, and Bill’s staring at the wall, refusing to talk to anyone. Patrick must have dozed – he didn’t mean to, thinking someone should be alert, but the next thing he’s aware of is a crash and tumult from the corridor, someone shouting, the whizz-zap of a phaser and a dull thud. The door swishes open and Gabe Saporta is standing there, phaser in hand, yelling,

“Come on!” Over the slumped bodies of the guards.

“What?!” Shouts Brendon. “What are you doing?”

“What does it look like, I’m busting you out of here! Hurry!”

Patrick hesitates. There are sounds of firearms from the corridor, and Saporta takes a gun from one of the fallen guards and tosses it to Patrick. Brendon and Bill take the others, then they follow Saporta out into the corridor, where several more guards are approaching. It’s a firefight. Patrick ducks as a phaser beam whips past his shoulder, takes cover in the doorframe, subconsciously pushing Brendon down and behind him with one hand. He takes out a guard with a shot to the forehead (he hasn’t lived this long as a renegade without picking up a thing or two about firefights) while Brendon takes out another from his side.

“Get back inside,” says Patrick to Brendon.

“No, are you kidding!?” Brendon exclaims, and aims around him again. Meanwhile, Saporta, who is clearly some sort of secret ninja, has managed to take out about half the guard single-handedly, but also has a fairly serious-looking burn down his right side, and his gait is hampered. Bill’s doing pretty well himself, but then suddenly the guards start falling like dominos, and Patrick realises they’re being shot from behind. Pete, Sisky, Spencer and everyone else are making a break for it, all captives included. Patrick does a quick check and he can see some blood and few phaser burns, but no-one looks in danger of imminent death (largely due to Saporta’s proficiency). 

“Go!” Saporta yells the second the corridor is clear: “Head for the shuttle bay!”

An alarm is screaming, and more crewmembers are headed down the corridors towards them. Patrick’s pretty much forgotten where the shuttle bay, but Mixon seems to have kept his head and has and memorized the layout. Patrick wants to outrun Flowers’ crew – he doesn’t want any more people here to die than necessary, but then there’s a heart-stopping moment when Brendon stumbles beside him and goes down, and Patrick turns, grabbing his arm, ready to kill –

“I’m fine,” Brendon gasps: “They missed me.”

He lurches up and limps for a second before shaking it off, and then the shuttle bay is in sight –

\- and three more guards appear behind them.

Saporta turns around.

“Go,” he says.

“No!” says Bill.

The shuttle bay door whizzes open, and Mix, Sisky and Spencer pile through.

“GO!” Saporta yells, grabs Patrick by the shoulder and urges him through the door. Patrick grabs Brendon’s forearm and pulls him with him. Joe is right behind   
him. A split second later, Pete stumbles in, off-balance like he’s been pushed - Patrick steadies him, then looks up to see Bill is almost thrown in, he goes down   
on one knee before turning around but the door has already slammed shut.

“No!” cries Bill and hits the closed door with both fists. There’s a hail of phaser fire from the corridor. 

“Bill, we’ve got to get out of here!” Pete grabs one of his shoulders, Sisky takes the other, and they pull him backwards just as a door panel bulges inwards, seared by a phaser blast. Joe is hurriedly doing something to the locking mechanism – securing it, Patrick hopes – whilst Brendon dashes to start the shuttle and Patrick opens the hangar doors. Mix and Spencer fire directly on Flowers’ own shuttles at close range, blowing their windshields out as a priority.

“Everyone get in!” Pete yells. He and Sisky are practically dragging Bill, who looks shell-shocked now. The phaser fire from the corridor has guttered out. Patrick grabs the navigator’s seat as Brendon lifts the shuttle into the air, opening the back doors for Joe and Mix as the hangar door starts to open. Pete and Sisky are pulling Bill inside. In that instant, though, there’s an urgent bleep and some flashes of light as the inner door registers an override command. Burnt, it lurches halfway open then stops. The shuttle aims for the outdoor. A stream of phaser fire rattles through the gap – Brendon lurches the shuttle dramatically downward to evade it. 

“Go go go!” yells Sisky.

“I’m trying!” yells Brendon, as the door groans open most the way, and there stands Flowers himself, fuming, bruised, smoking phaser in hand. Bill cranes his neck to see behind him, but the corridor is obscured by Flowers and the remains of the door. Flowers fires directly on them and the shuttle lurches to the side, but the impact also sends them through the hangar door, and back out into the atmosphere.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a quick reminder that all scientific/technological detail in this series has been pulled from science fiction, Wikipedia, or directly out of my ass. Also, whilst he does seem like kind of a dick, I'm quite sure Brandon Flowers isn't actually the leader of an evil faction of space pirates. I actually enjoy The Killers very much.


	7. Chapter 7

“Shit shit shit,” mutters Brendon, struggling to keep to the shuttle climbing. Flowers’ shot has damaged a wing. 

“55% power,” Patrick tells him calmly. “We can make it. Killing passenger lights and minimizing atmosphere.” 

“Everyone alright?” Pete asks. There’s a chorus of yeahs, groans, and ‘more-or-lesses’ from the shuttle. Patrick doesn’t have time to think about much else until they gain some atmosphere, then there’s a light from below. 

“Holy _shit/i >!” cries Brendon as the shuttle rocks sideways, they look down – just in time to see the _Battle Born_ explode in a ball of flame. Their craft careens, but it seems Brendon’s learned a thing or two since his cadet days, because he steadies them and moves them out of the blast zone. Patrick spares a glance at Bill, but he’s just sitting there, staring at his hands. _

_Well. First things first._

_Travie whoops when they pull up in the Decaydance hangar._

_“Nice flying kid!” he claps Brendon on the back and gives him a light hug._

_“Thanks,” Brendon looks somewhat shocked with himself._

_“You did great,” Patrick tells him._

_“You, you, you, get to the medical bay,” Maja points at the former captives. “Where’s Saporta?”_

_“He uh,” Sisky coughs._

_“It’s a long story,” Pete says. “And its after two a.m. by ship’s time. Let’s just get everyone fixed up and we’ll debrief in the morning, alright?”_

_Maja pauses, then nods, and they start to disperse for what’s left of the night. Pete steers Bill away quietly and Travie leans casually on Patrick:_

_“He okay?” he asks quietly._

_“No,” says Patrick. “Not for a while, I think.”_

_Travie nods, and looks like he wants to say more, but holds it back. Patrick heads for the quarters he shares with Pete and takes a shower, turning the water as  
hot as possible to work out the stress and aches of the past days. Adrenaline flows off him, leaving him suddenly deeply tired. He doesn’t expect Pete to come to bed that night, thinking he’ll stay with Bill, but a couple of hours later the door swishes quietly, rousing him out of sleep. _

_“Sorry,” Pete whispers: “Go back to sleep._

_He does._

_*_

_“Emergency briefing, everyone to the lounge,” calls Pete, striding through the corridors the next morning. Andy and Mix are already in conversation when Patrick ducks in, and the others are either sitting around or follow shortly after. Pete quickly fills everyone in on Flowers and the Battle Born, stumbling when he gets to the part about their escape so Bill says_

_“Gabe saved us. He sacrificed himself to get us out. He’s the reason we’re here.”_

_There’s a difficult silence. Patrick can hear the unspoken ‘but he’s also the reason we were in there’._

_“Well,” says Andy at last. “In any case, now we have confirmation of intelligent life or pre-intelligent life in the oceans, but presumably someone was keeping tabs  
on Flowers’ movements. When he doesn’t report in, they’ll come looking.” _

_“We must have a few more days at least,” says Mixon: “Let’s just concentrate on scanning the oceans. We can start where the Battle Born was stationed and work outwards.”_

_“Agreed,” says Pete. “Brendon, Spencer, if you want to get out, Travie can shuttle you to the next system.”_

_“No way!” exclaimed Brendon, and Spencer shook his head emphatically. “You stay, we stay.”_

_“Having gone to the trouble of getting kidnapped,” Spencer grins, “I’d at least like a significant discovery out of it.”_

_“That’s settled then,” Pete nods. They pull up the 3d map again and Travie picks out a suitable landing spot, a few miles from where the Battle Born had exploded. There’s some silent agreement that Bill doesn’t need to see the remains of that. The next day by ship’s time is spent scanning the waters, both by sensor and sending the shuttle out over any blip that looks promising. By the evening, Travie and Maja have managed to rig one of the scanners for a deep probe:_

_“There,” says Maja abruptly, pointing out what looks like a wave pattern on the screen. “There is definitely something moving under the water.”_

_“Could be an active form of plant life,” Kyle warns against the premature cheers._

_“Well,” says Mix, rubbing his hands together: “How do you guys feel about scuba diving?”_

_“Seriously?” Brendon asks, wide-eyed._

_“We can probably rig some equipment together,” Kyle and Mix exchange looks, and Kyle nods. “Give us a few hours.”_

_“You’re not diving,” Pete tells Brendon._

_“Pretty sure you can’t actually order me not to.”_

_“You think you can keep up with Andy and Mix? Diving’s pretty gruelling. You don’t even work out”_

_“I work out! I have worked out! On….several occasions. In my lifetime.”_

_“Seriously, Brendon,” says Andy kindly, “You have to be really quite fit for this even in known waters. It wouldn’t be fun for you. Why don’t you pilot the shuttle  
down to the surface?” _

_“I will too,” Patrick says._

_“I’ll dive,” says Bill._

_They all look at each other. To be honest, Patrick would have classed Bill more as skinny than athletic, but he does use the gym more regularly than some of  
them. The truth is, no-one wants to tell him no. The distraction will probably be good for him, and Andy will keep an eye out. Pete will dive too – generally not one for sending his crew on adventures without him, and he’s fit enough – and they only have four suits, so that’s the contingent. The scientists spend a few hours upgrading the diving equipment Kyle and Mix brought out, whilst Maja and Joe attempt to create a camera feed that will withstand the ocean pressure. It's all scuba, but they'll take the shuttle out to monitor the divers more easily. Travie has the shuttle pretty much back to full capacity – most of the damage was Andy provides divers with a the safety briefing: _

_“And, finally, don’t be a hero. If you feel breathless or disorientated at all, you signal for help _before_ it becomes a problem. If you find something of interest we can always go back. Your priority is to get out of the water.” _

_They all nod solemnly and Patrick glares at Pete hard, but Pete is looking at William. Everybody suits up, and Joe affixes the tiny camera feeds which link to both the main deck and the shuttle. Travie almost has the shuttle back to full service - most of the damage was to outer hull panels, for which they have plenty of replacements._

_“They’ll probably cut out at some point, so don’t panic,” he tells everyone. “We’ll keep the ship-shuttle link open to so we can prepare feeds.”_

_“Alright, let’s do this,” says Mixon, grinning. He rubs his hands together. They pile into the shuttle, cramped with oxygen tanks, lines and equipment, then  
Patrick and Brendon glide it down to rest on the water. With the modifications Maja’s been making over the past few months, the shuttle can rest on water and sail short distances, though it’s not a particularly efficient sailing vessel. Mix, Kyle, Pete and Bill check their suits a final time (Patrick restrains himself from helping) then launch themselves into the water with clean movements. The water is more purple here than on earth, reflecting the atmospheric gases, and there’s something quite surreal about watching the surface part, ripple, then swallow up another of his friends. Patrick turns his eyes to the monitor instead. It crackles for a moment, then divides into four panels, one for each camera feed. At first they’re just static, then they resolve into murky water, waves and ripples cut through with slivers of light. He sees bits of the other divers in everyone's screen - a mask, goggles, the black surface of the wetsuits – which disperse as the divers move away from each other. Its weirdly disorientating to see four people's perspective at the same time. Then its just murk._

_“Are, er, the cameras working?” Brendon asks._

_“Give them a minute,” says Patrick. Sure enough, a few minutes later, coral comes onto Kyle’s screen and they see his hand extend in a thumbs up. Then Pete finds the same. Seaweed comes onto Mix’s screen, although Bill’s remains dark but for the water. The divers approach the plants and start working through them, touching and carefully pushing them aside to get deeper into the reefs. They aren’t far apart – Patrick still gets flashes of the others in the peripheral of each screen. Then Mix makes a sound – its muffled but still sounds like excitement, and the others all gather round where he’s signalling._

_“A path!” Brendon cries. And it is a path – something, or, lots of things, has beaten a path through the coral reef. It’s too straight to be natural, and too efficient to be the result of anything but conscious effort. “We’ve found it!” He throws his arms around Patrick and Patrick laughs:_

_“Okay okay. This is exciting. But let’s see where it goes, right?” According to the screen, the divers are at a depth of 25 metres, which means their oxygen should last a good twenty minutes before they need to come back up and refill. They all start to follow the path Mix found, Patrick’s leaning forward, staring eagerly at the screens –_

_\- When the air sensors beep at them frantically, flagging another shuttle approaching them at speed._

_“What the fuck?” Brendon yelps, running to the scanners._

_“Can we get a visual on that?” Patrick asks tightly. Brendon presses a few buttons in quick sequence, and the two of the divers’ feeds disappear from the screen, replaced by atmosphere. Brendon locates the shuttle and zooms in:_

_“Holy shit,” he breathes out._

_It’s a Battle Born shuttle. Well, naturally. Patrick should’ve guessed Brandon would not be giving up easy. But-_

_“He’s _dead_ ” says Brendon. “I mean you saw it. He was right behind us when the ship exploded.”_

_“Well, now he’s back,” says Patrick grimly. “And he’s coming right for us.”_

_“We can’t move,” Brendon says, as Patrick grabs the mike to hail the Decaydance: “They’ll run out of air.”_

_“Decaydance, this is the shuttle, copy?”_

_“Copy,” says Travie._

_“We’ve got a Battle Born shuttle approaching at X 54.2, Y 1.7.”_

_“YOU WHAT?”_

_“Yep. Can you take it out?”_

_“Scanning now…..Patrick I’m not seeing it.”_

_“X 40 and Y 3.5 now.”_

_“Guys, Bill needs to come up,” Brendon interrupts with his eyes on Bill’s screen – Bill is holding his hand in front of him, pointing upwards towards the surface._

_“Alright I got it,” says Travie abruptly. “Preparing to fire.”_

_Then their coms beep in unison._

_“Uh, Trick, he’s hailing us?”_

_Bill’s head breaks the surface and Brendon reaches out to pull him, dripping, into the shuttle._

_Patrick opens the channel for the approaching shuttle and says_

_“This is the Decaydance shuttle one with the Decaydance on standby. We have guns locked on you. Stop your approach and explain yourself or we fire.”_

_“Don’t fire!” yelps a familiar voice, and Brendon, Patrick and Bill turn to stare at the com, exclaiming in unison:_

_“GABE?!”_

_*_

_Fifteen minutes later, the whole shuttle contingent plus Gabriel Saporta were sitting crammed in the seating area, divers dripping all over, whilst Gabe explains  
for the third time:_

_“I’m a double agent. I was working for Flowers, officially, but my whole plan was to hand over whatever he found to Mix and Kyle. I knew he had better  
equipment than you guys and would find anything that there was to be found a lot sooner. I was supposed to give him your camp’s location, but I kept pretending the communications were down. When he kidnapped the beach group, I gave him a false location then told him you must have moved.”_

_“What would have been awesome,” says Pete, shaking his head and spraying water: “Is if you could have just told us that.”_

_“Couldn’t risk it,” Gabe says. “If you knew, you’d try and go after him, which wouldn’t end well.”_

_“It ended pretty well!” Brendon says._

_“You have incredible luck,” Gabe says, “And a lot of practical help. I doubt I could’ve gotten anyone else out.”_

_“But,” Patrick shakes his head. “I don’t understand. How _did_ you get out? The way I remember it, there were like six guys firing in the corridor when the door closed, and you were behind us.”_

_“Well, three of those were mine,” Gabe grins. They all stare at him. “Come on now,” he says: “There’s good luck, and then there’s _statistical impossibility_. Besides which, I had an escape route. There was a smaller shuttle bay on the east wing of the Battle Born and I’d figured out weeks ago you could make it through ventilation system. That was some James Bond shit, you should have seen it.” He grins at Bill, who is staring at him with a mixture of delight, confusion and anger. “Come on Bill,” he appeals. “You didn’t imagine I spent _all_ my time just being a billionaire playboy-slash-sex god, did you? Baby, I would get so bored when you’re not around!”_

_“You – you -!” Bill exclaims, then flings himself on Gabe and grabs his face, kissing him furiously._

_“Hey, not to break up the love fest or anything,” Pete says loudly. “But who is ‘we’?”_

_“Me, and the two of my dudes that got out.” Pause. “Someone had to set off the ships’ reactor.”_

_There’s a long pause. Then Mix asks:_

_“Did you happen to find out the location of the life forms?”_

_“What? Oh yeah, you’re not even close,” Gabe comes up for air. “We have to go much deeper. I uploaded the coordinates to my communicator.”_

_“Well, what are they?!” Mixon demands._

_“Hard to say,” Gabe says with a small smile. “You’ll just have to see them for yourselves I guess. But get on it – when Flowers misses his next check in, Wentz Corp will start an investigation.”_

_“Any reason we shouldn’t start right now?”_

_“None at all.”_

_So Gabe boards the Battle Born shuttle again, which is idling on the water, and leads them a good twenty miles south to a darker, more shadowy patch of ocean before pulling up._

_“Here’s a good place to dive,” he says through the com. “I could come over to direct through the camera feeds or…”_

_“You should dive,” Bill says. “Take my suit. It’ll just be easier that way.”_

_So Gabe leads Mix and Andy down, and in mere minutes, all four of the feeds onscreen show a deep blue glow from the coral reefs. Its immediately clear they’ve hit paydirt. A shoal of tiny fish, no bigger than insects, whisks past Andy’s camera and they all cheer._

_“Life!,” Brendon says._

_“Life” Bill agrees._

_“That’s….” Patrick says. In Pete’s field of vision, Gabe hlds up one finger, telling them to wait._

_On the split screens, Andy and Mix grin delightedly in each other’s vision. Gabe very carefully parts the plants, and in the reef, something moves – several  
somethings, all at once, and then Patrick and Brendon and Bill gasp in unison, because as they stare ate the screens, row upon row of bright round black eyes are   
staring right back at them. _

_*_

_“Are they… fish?” Travie asks. They’re all back on board the Decaydance, with the addition of six blue-and-white striped little sea creatures which are currently in a tank in the rec room. If they resemble anything from earth, it would be salamanders, but they breathe through sets of gills in their sides and don’t seem to come out of the water. Two of the six have loose flaps of skin around their necks and chins, which they seem to be able to inflate at will._

_“They’re not fish” says Patrick. “Look – they’re walking.”_

_In place of bottom fins, the things have stumpy legs that work in a rotating motion. They walked on the bottom of the ocean, and are now using them to propel themselves over the rocks in the tank._

_“Oh my gosh,” murmers Brendon, as the things blink up at the humans curiously, tilting their heads this way and that. “They’re so cute.”_

_“You’re not keeping one, Brendon,” Pete says._

_“Of course not, that would be cruel. They clearly need company, I’d say at least three or four-“_

_“More importantly, they can’t have evolved in isolation,” Mix says. “What do they eat? Maybe those tiny fish? From their lack of fear I’d think they were at the top  
of the food chain, but maybe we just don’t resemble their predator species.”_

_“In any case, we absolutely have enough evidence to take to the Committee,” Spencer stands up straight. “Can we take a few coral samples also?”_

_“Done already,” says Mix. “They’re in the lab waiting for you.”_

_“Well,” Pete says, putting one arm around Patrick’s shoulder and the other around Bill’s waist: “I’d call that mission accomplished guys. Shame we didn’t find  
anything cooler than fish-“_

_A short chorus of objection from the biologists_

_“But I guess the Committee will finance a proper expedition now.”_

_“For sure,” says Spencer. He replaces the lid of the tank carefully, keeping a side-eye on Brendon who looks ready to steal one of the lizard-fish things and  
smuggle it back to his quarters. _

_“So,” Travie says. “Everybody ready to blow this joint?” They agree, though Mix and Spencer are casting wistful glances out of the viewing port, and everyone not on duty rota turns in for ships night. Bill practically drags Gabriel off the bridge, arm around his waist, and Patrick and Pete head for their quarters. Pete’s in a great mood, humming tunelessly as he dries his hair after a shower._

_“What’s up?” he asks Patrick._

_“I’m not sure,” Patrick sighs. “I mean, this was the best outcome right? I just feel like…”_

_“Like?”_

_“Aren’t you concerned by what Flowers was getting away with?” What Wentz Corp was getting away with, he doesn’t add._

_“He didn’t get away with it,” Pete reasons. “He’s dead.”_

_“As far as we know.”_

_Pete stares at him for a minute, then: “Nah,” he says. “That couldn’t – nah.”_

_“Gabe did it.”_

_“Yeah but he had that planned in advance. There’s no way Flowers got out.”_

_“Is there any way – “ Patrick breaks off, then sighs and lies back on the bed. He knew Wentz Corp was corrupt and powerful, but this…it just wasn’t fair. Wentz Corp should be brought to account. Mix and Kyle should be recognised for their work._

_“It’s an unfair universe,” says Pete, with a wry sideways look like he knows more about it than Patrick ever will._

_“Yeah it is,” Patrick agrees. Abruptly, Pete drops his towel, pulls off his t-shirt, then comes over to the bed and straddles Patrick. Patrick grins, cupping Pete’s ass  
with both hands._

_“Do you think you deserve a reward for your valiant efforts, Mr. Stump?” he asks._

_“Definitely,” Patrick says, and leans up into the kiss._

_*_

_Once they get back to Earth, Pete gives everyone a week’s leave, effective immediately. Even Travie takes it, after a couple of days spent servicing the engines. Spencer takes their findings to the All Earth Ecological Commission in the form of a presentation attended by most of the major delegates. He immediately gets a proper trip financed, and the Wentz Corporations activities planetside are barred until further notice. Brendon elects to join Spencer as a guide for the new trip, and gets leave granted by his Captain. Bill and Gabe disappear together and nobody hears a word from them, until they emerge several days later looking extremely smug and not particularly rested. Mix and Kyle return to Fuck City:_

_“I could probably get you a hearing before the Comission,” Spencer offers. “I’m sure after your part in all this, they would look into reinstating you.”_

_“Nah,” says Kyle._

_“N- huh?”_

_“I think we’ve probably been out too long at this point,” says Mix. “I mean sure, funding would be nice, but we’ve kind of got used to not answering to anybody  
but ourselves.”_

_Spencer looks unconvinced but accepts the answer._

_And Pete and Patrick go back to normal. Or whatever passes for normal with them. They get one final message from Anderson, a quick congratulations via an encrypted email. Pete picks it up in a hotel room, but when he tries to answer it bounces. Patrick wants to ask if Pete will ever confront Wentz Corp. But  
ultimately, its not his business. Its not like Patrick is offering to do it. The whole story is clearly not salacious enough for the tabloids:_

_“Which is weird,” Pete comments, “When you consider that it actually has an adventure, a ton of hot sex, treachery that turned out not to be treachery, and some cute little fish with legs.”_

_“Did you just refer to Bill and Gabe as having a ton of hot sex?”_

_“I was talking about _us_ , baby!”_

_“Oh I see,” laughs Patrick. “Pretty big talk.”_

_“I can back it up,” Pete says, and pushes him back into the bed._

_The End._


End file.
